THE   CLIMBER 


LUCIA   CRIMSON 


THE    CLIMBER 

By 

E.    F.    BENSON 


With  Frontispiece 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT   OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,   INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,    1908,   BY  DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE  i  COMPANY 


THE   CLIMBER 


CHAPTER  I 

TT  WAS  a  warm  still  night  early  in  May,  and  the 
•••  electric  light  over  the  cabstand  at  the  end  of  the 

square  cast  on  to  the  pavement  and  dusty  surface  of 
the  dry  roadway  the  elbowed  and  angular  shadows  of 
the  still  leafless  plane-trees,  in  unwavering  lines,  as 
if  they  were  made  of  some  dark  marble  cunningly 
inlaid  into  a  grey  ground.  The  dried  seed-balls  of  last 
year  still  hung  there,  and  the  air  was  only  sufficient  to 
stir  them,  so  that  they  oscillated  gently  to  and  fror 
swinging  from  side  to  side  in  the  light  breeze  that  was 
not  strong  enough  to  agitate  the  twigs  and  branches 
that  bore  them.  But  in  other  respects,  apart  from  the 
merely  atmospheric,  the  square  was  full  enough  of 
movement ;  two  houses  at  least  had  evening  parties  go- 
ing on,  and  at  the  end  of  the  square  opposite  the  cab- 
stand there  was  a  dance,  and  rows  of  carriages  and  mo- 
tors were  employed,  in  endless  procession,  in  unloading 
their  occupants  opposite  the  strip  of  red  carpet  that 
ran  across  from  the  curbstone  of  the  pavement  to  the 
step  of  the  house.  Lights  blazed  from  the  windows, 
sedulous  footmen  were  busy  with  carriage  doors  and, 
a  little  farther  within,  with  pins  and  numbered  tickets, 
while  from  the  windows  of  the  first  floor,  open  and 
screened  with  awning,  the  white  stripes  of  which 
showed  luminously  in  the  dark,  came  the  enchanting 
lilt  and  rhythm  of  dance  music.  Bound  the  other  side 
of  the  square  were  lines  of  ordered  carriages  and  ex- 
pectant cabs,  and  from  one  house  or  another  there  con- 


4  THE    CLIMBER 

stantly  sounded  the  shrill  whistles  to  summon  the  lat- 
ter, two  whistles  for  two  wheels,  and  one  for  four,  and 
the  fineness  of  the  night  made  hansoms  the  more 
popular  conveyance. 

The  drawing-room  windows  of  Number  36,  next  door 
to  the  fortunate  house  with  the  carriages  and  the  red 
carpet,  were  open,  and  in  the  window  seat  were  two 
girls,  leaning  out  through  the  screen  of  red  geranium, 
yellow  calceolaria  and  lobelia  with  which  the  window 
boxes  had  been  lately  filled,  and  sipping  cocoa  intermit- 
tently as  a  medium  for  the  conveyance  of  sandwiches. 
They  had  been  to  the  theatre  together,  but  Mrs.  Eddis, 
mistress  of  the  house  and  their  chaperon,  had  gone  to 
bed,  on  their  return,  while  Maud  Eddis  and  her  friend 
had  lingered  to  talk  "  things  "  over  and  in  especial  to 
watch  the  arrivals  next  door.  Black  and  blond,  they 
were  kneeling  in  the  window-seat,  looking  out  on  to  the 
stream  of  carriages  and  the  shadows  of  the  plane-trees. 
At  length,  about  half-past  eleven,  there  was  a  slack- 
ening in  the  arrivals,  for  the  season  was  still  young, 
and  guests  went  to  dances  comparatively  early,  and 
they  withdrew  their  attention  from  outside  affairs  and 
devoted  themselves  with  more  zeal  to  sandwiches  and 
conversation. 

Lucia  Grimson  began  by  giving  a  great  sigh. 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  Maud,  how  happy  you  ought  to 
be, ' '  she  said.  * '  Everything  is  spread  out  for  you  like 
lunch  at  a  picnic,  when  you  can  simply  descend  and 
grab  what  you  like.  And  you  are  a  darling,  you 
have  given  me  such  nice  grabs  all  this  last  week. 
And  now  my  picnic  is  over.  At  least  it  will  be  to- 
morrow." 

Maud,  with  precision,  finished  her  sandwich  and 


THE   CLIMBER  5 

swallowed  it  all  before  she  spoke.  Lucia,  it  may  be  re- 
marked, spoke  with  her  mouth  full. 

"  But  do  stay  another  week,"  she  said.  "  Mother 
would  be  delighted  and  I — well,  I  could  put  up  with 
you.  There's  a  dance  to-morrow,  you  know,  and  it's 

mother's  opera  night  on  Wednesday,  and "  Lucia 

waved  her  hands  violently. 

"  Oh,  stop,  stop,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  get  perfectly 
green  with  envy  if  you  go  on,  and  it  would  not  be 
becoming.  I've  got  to  go  to-morrow;  when  you  come 
down  and  stay  with  us  in  August  you  will  quite  under- 
stand why.  You  can't  at  present ;  you  have  never  lived 
in  a  country  town  with  two  aunts  who  were  daughters 
of  a  defunct  Dean.  You  can't  understand  the  rules, 
you  lucky  person.  If  one  has  settled  to  go  home  on 
Wednesday,  on  Wednesday  home  you  go,  and  nothing 
short  of  an  earthquake  may  stop  you.  And  the  earth- 
quake would  have  to  be  a  bad  one.  Oh,  Maud,  we  are 
alone,  aren't  we?  If  so  '  Damn,'  but  not  other- 
wise." 

Lucia  got  up,  and  took  the  last  sandwich. 

' '  One  used  always  to  be  told  to  leave  the  last  for  Mr. 
Manners,"  she  observed,  "  but  I  think  the  parlour- 
maid usually  ate  it ;  here  Don  Whiskers  would.  So  why 
shouldn't  I?  How  good !  And  how  good  the  play  was ! 
And  people  yawned,  and  people  went  out  before  the 
end!  What  idiots!  Weren't  they!  " 

"  I  thought  the  last  act  was  rather  dull,"  said  Maud. 

11  Then  you're  just  as  bad.  You  are  blasee,  darling: 
I  think  most  people  are  biases.  That  I  can't  under- 
stand. Nobody  who  has  a  plan  should  be  blase.  And 
as  long  as  one  has  any  interest  in  life  one  has  a  plan. 
I  have  several. ' ' 


6  THE   CLIMBER 

Maud  moved  from  the  window-seat  and  lit  the  two 
bedroom  candles  that  had  been  brought  in. 

"  Let's  go  up  to  your  room,"  she  said,  "  and  have  a 
hair-brush  talk.  Or  shall  we  go  to  my  room?  " 

Lucia  made  a  little  impatient  movement. 

"  Oh,  let's  stop  here,"  she  said.  "  I  hate  talking  in 
bedrooms.  My  plans  are  not  bedroom  plans.  They  are 
much  more  connected  with  drawing-rooms  and  balls 
and  life  and  movement.  I'm  not  domestic,  you  know. 
At  least  I  want  my  domestic  arrangements  to  be  on  a 
particularly  large  scale.  Yes,  I  daresay  I  sound  as  if 
I  was  a  little  intoxicated.  Well,  so  I  am ;  this  delightful 
whirl  of  a  week  up  in  town  has  gone  to  my  head.  How- 
ever, you  need  not  be  alarmed  for  me.  It  isn't  going  to 
become  a  habit.  You  see  to-morrow  I  go  home,  back  to 
the  cold-water  cure.  Dear  me,  the  very  thought  of  it 
sobers  me  at  once." 

An  elderly  and  discreet  man-servant,  Don  Whiskers, 
to  whom  allusion  has  been  made,  came  into  the  room, 
with  the  evident  intention  of  putting  out  the  lights  be- 
fore himself  going  to  bed.  A  shade  of  reserved  disap- 
proval crossed  his  face  when  he  saw  it  was  still  occu- 
pied, and  he  withdrew  again,  not,  however,  quite  clos- 
ing the  door,  as  if  to  convey  a  subtle  hint  that  it  was 
really  not  worth  while  to  do  so  at  this  time  of  the  night. 
The  hint  was  not  lost  on  Maud. 

"  That's  the  third  time  Parker  has  come  in,"  she 
said  to  Lucia.  "  Perhaps  we  had  better  go  upstairs, 
if  you  don't  mind.  Mother  doesn't  like  the  servants 
being  kept  up  late." 

Lucia  got  up  at  once,  stifling  an  impatient  little  sigh. 
What  were  servants  for,  except  to  serve  you?  Instead 
of  which,  Mrs.  Eddis's  plan  seemed  to  her  to  be  one 


THE   CLIMBER  7 

long  effort  of  arranging  the  day  to  please  them,  and  so 
order  her  movements  that  they  should  be  put  to  no  in- 
convenience of  any  kind,  and  in  particular  do  nothing 
that  they  could  think  strange  or  irregular.  An  instance 
in  point  was  that  the  two  girls  had  just  supped  on  cocoa 
and  sandwiches,  though  the  night  was  hot,  because  it 
was  thought  in  the  kitchen  that  cocoa  and  sandwiches 
were  the  proper  refreshments  to  take  after  a  theatre. 
Mrs.  Flagstaff,  the  cook,  who  had  been  with  Mrs.  Eddis 
for  fifteen  years,  was  accustomed  to  send  up  cocoa  and 
sandwiches  on  these  occasions ;  she  would  have  thought 
it  strange  to  be  asked  for  anything  else.  These  ar- 
rangements were  of  the  Mede  and  Persian  order — the 
human  mind  (as  exhibited  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Eddis) 
was  incapable  of  conceiving  a  different  order  of  things. 

But  Lucia  had  a  genius  for  appearing  rapturously 
contented  with  the  ways  and  manners  of  other  people ; 
at  any  rate,  while  she  was  with  them.  She  had  already 
been  complimentary  on  the  subject  of  the  sandwiches, 
and  now  she  lit  her  bedroom  candle  at  once. 

"  Yes,  let's  go  upstairs,"  she  said,  "  but  I  warn  you 
that  the  first  i^fcep  toward  going  to  bed  is  probably 
widely  removed  from  the  last.  I've  got  heaps  to  say, 
simply  heaps,  and  I  shan't  have  another  opportunity 
of  saying  it  for  ages.  That  is  one  of  the  penalties  of 
the  cold-water  cure ;  nobody,  not  a  soul,  down  at  Brix- 
ham  understands  one  single  thing!  ': 

Maud  laughed. 

"  How  do  you  manage  to  communicate,  then?  "  she 
asked. 

' '  Oh,  I  have  learned  their  language,  you  see,  though 
they  haven't  learned  mine.  It's  quite  different.  So  I 
talk  about  their  things,  which  I  understand  perfectly. 


8 


CLI 


"   them,  be« 


it 


"**•'    They 


-*----*- 
-  - 


rr-'  h  ra«ier  hurt  herthaM-  affectations,  and  for 
the  juster  name  for  serioi     n      ^  should  say  that 

S-7---H*«-^«£ 

^ucia,  she  was  aware  thaAl          represented  the  real 
intoleranf  r\f  ^i.  ®  real  Lnnio  -rrr, 

•*-*•  *^    vJ  J      I  fl  O    /^i-»  *^  I     J.  *  ~^"^  *-*  v^id       %V  ^-1  W      Oil  /-«(-,  J.7 

An  .        ue  (3ua^ties  whiph  i     T  u  SJigntIy 


^ 


THE   CLIMBER  9 

ing  salts  or  phenacetin.  Or  if  (depression  being  rare 
with  her)  exuberance,  like  a  hose,  demanded  something 
to  squirt  at,  Maud's  glow  of  sympathetic  delight  in  her 
ecstatic  vitality  was  equally  satisfying.  And  thus  the 
fact  of  the  mutual  attraction  of  unlikes  was  illustrated ; 
the  two  girls,  by  the  very  fact  of  their  polar  dissimil- 
itude, were  closer  friends  than  any  similarity  of  na- 
ture would  have  caused  them  to  be.  Between  them 
they  completed  the  spirit  of  girlhood;  fused  into  one, 
they  would  have  formed  the  incarnation  of  womanhood. 
But  Nature,  in  her  inscrutable  ways,  is  wont  to  pluck 
her  incarnation  in  two;  she  gives  the  complement  of 
certain  adorable  qualities  to  another  person.  The  two 
halves  of  the  ideal,  however,  usually  find  a  certain  con- 
solation in  these  imperfections,  and  in  the  present  in- 
stance a  friendship  almost  ideal  resulted  from  them. 
For  the  selfishness  of  the  one  was  healed  by  the  self- 
abandonment  of  the  other,  and  what  Lucia  would  have 
called  the  seriousness  of  Maud  was  lit  by  her  own 
vivacity. 

Maud  arrived  quickly  at  the  hair-brushing  stage  of 
undressing,  and  went  to  her  friend's  room.  But  Lucia 
had  been,  as  was  her  custom,  the  quicker  of  the  two,  and 
was  standing  in  front  of  her  glass  playing  conjuring 
tricks,  as  was  Maud's  phrase  for  these  operations,  with 
her  hair.  For  it  seemed  part  and  parcel  of  her  lambent 
vitality  that  her  very  hair  should  be  full  not  only  of  the 
pale  gold  flames  of  its  colouring,  but  that  authentic  fire 
should  burn  in  it.  And  now,  as  she  stood  before  her 
glass,  lightly  brushing  it,  it  stood  out  from  her  head  in 
soft  billows  of  gold,  each  hair  assertingntself,  not  lying 
close  with  the  rest,  but  alive  and  individual.  Her  small, 
pale,  oval  face,  still  strangely  sexless  in  spite  of  her 


10  THE   CLIMBER 

twenty  years,  and  more  like  the  face  of  some  young  boy 
than  of  a  girl  on  the  threshold  of  womanhood,  lay  like 
a  flushed  jewel  in  the  casket  of  its  gold,  a  jewel  to 
ravish  the  eyes  and  trouble  the  soul  of  the  sanest.  She 
had  put  on  a  dressing-gown  of  grey  silk,  with  short 
arms  reaching  barely  to  her  elbows,  and  the  neutrality 
of  its  colour  heightened  by  contrast  her  pale,  brilliant 
colouring. 

Maud  took  the  hair-brush  out  of  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  let  me,"  she  said.  "  I  love  to  do  it  for  you, 
Lucia.  May  I  put  the  candles  out  and  see  it  sparkle! 
I  am  sure  it  would  give  flashes  to-night." 

11  Yes,  but  not  now;  before  going  to  bed,"  she  said. 
"I've  got  a  cargo  of  talk  on  board,  and  I  must  get  it 
landed.  And  I  want  a  cigarette  more  than  I  can  pos- 
sibly say.  Oh,  it 's  no  use  frowning.  I  know  quite  well 
that  you  wish  I  wouldn't  smoke.  But  you  also  know 
quite  well,  darling,  that  I  don't  mind  the  least  about 
that." 

This  was  perfectly  true,  and  Maud  made  no  further 
remonstrance.  Indeed,  she  was  incapable  of  radical 
disapproval  with  regard  to  anything  Lucia  did,  for  all 
her  actions  came  to  her  through  the  golden  haze,  so  to 
speak,  of  her  personality.  Maud  could  no  more  really 
judge  them  than  the  dazzled  eye  can  judge  of  colour. 

"  Yes,  cargoes  of  talk,"  she  said,  "  all  disconnected, 
all  nonsensical,  I  daresay,  but  all  me.  Because  if  one  is 
really  absurd  as  I  am  one  is  most  ridiculous  when  one 
is  most  oneself.  Most  people  are  ridiculous,  but  they 
won't  say  so,  and  talk  about  politics  instead,  or  some- 
thing which  is  possibly  not  ridiculous.  And  afterwards 
you  may  talk  about  yourself  for  a  little.  "Well,  the  real 
point  is  that  I'm  growing  up.  I've  begun  to  realize 


THE    CLIMBEE  11 

that  I  am  I.  I  didn't  really  know  it  before,  and  I'm 
only  just  beginning  to  know  it  now.  Maud,  I'm  a  very 
awful  person,  really.  If  anybody  else  was  like  me  I 
should  be  shocked  at  her.  But  because  it's  me,  I'm  not. 
I  wonder  if  you'll  be  shocked." 

«  Try,  "said  Maud. 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  wise.  You  might  get  up  with 
a  Day  of  Judgment  face  in  the  middle,  and  stalk  out  of 
the  room." 

Maud  was  naturally  very  reserved  and  reticent,  and 
it  was  here  again  that  the  utter  dissimilarity  of  the  two 
drew  them  closer  together.  If  Lucia  felt  a  thing 
deeply,  that  thing  exploded  in  all  directions  in  floods  of 
talk,  while  the  same  fact  in  Maud's  case  was  sufficient 
to  tie  and  seal  her  tongue  in  a  manner  almost  her- 
metical.  If  her  nature  was  moved  below  its  surface,  the 
words  by  which  it  would  naturally  find  utterance  con- 
gealed, so  that  to  the  mere  superficial  observer,  who 
judges  only  by  surface,  the  more  deeply  she  felt  the 
more  wooden  and  set  (to  put  it  inimically)  she  became. 
And  if  she  envied  Lucia  anything  (which,  indeed,  she 
scarcely  did,  since  her  love  for  her  told  her  how  meet 
and  right  it  was  that  she  should  be  endowed  with  these 
brilliances),  she  sighed  for  this  gift  of  spontaneous  ex- 
pression— expression  as  spontaneous  as  the  waving  of 
a  dog's  tail  to  express  pleasure,  or  the  involuntary 
quickening  of  the  heart-beat  in  anticipation  or  sus- 
pense. 

"  Go  on  and  try,"  she  said.  "  I  want  you,  Lucia — 
oh,  dear !  I  wish  I  could  express  myself — I  want  you  to 
show  me  all  yourself,  to  let  me  see  you  from  all  points 
just  as — oh,  just  as  one  revolves  slowly  before  the 
dressmaker  when  one  is  trying  on." 


12  THE   CLIMBER 

Lucia  nodded  appreciatively  at  Maud. 

"  Ah,  that's  good,"  she  said,  "  that  expresses  what 
you  mean,  anyhow,  and  that  is  what  I  find  it  so  hard  to 
do.  All  those  dear — well,  eight-day  clocks  down  at 
Brixham  say  I  always  say  more  than  I  mean,  and  think 
to  themselves  '  Oh,  it's  only  Lucia.'  Yes;  they  are 
eight-day  clocks — seven-day,  rather — and  they  strike 
with  absolute  regularity,  are  wound  up  for  the  week  at 
the  cathedral  service  at  half -past  ten  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing. The  cathedral  service  is  the  spring  and  centre  of 
our  life  at  Brixham :  we  draw  life  and  inspiration  from 
it.  My  grandpapa,  the  Dean,  said  that  in  a  volume 
of  brown  sermons  which  I  read  to  Aunt  Cathie  and 
Aunt  Elizabeth  on  Sunday  evening.  There!  You 
are  beginning  to  look  Judgment  Day,  but  I  don't 
care. ' ' 

Lucia  sat  down  on  the  floor  at  Maud's  feet,  pushing 
her  knees  apart  with  little  burrowy  movements  of  her 
shoulders,  so  that  she  sat  hemmed  in  by  her  with  her 
back  against  the  front  of  the  sofa  where  Maud  sat.  Her 
preparation  for  hair-brushing  had  been  more  complete 
than  Maud's  and  she  had  taken  off  her  stockings  and 
evening  shoes,  substituting  for  them  red  morocco  slip- 
pers. These,  too,  as  she  talked,  she  had  slipped  off,  and 
was  pushing  her  bare  feet  into  the  long  white  wool  of 
the  sheepskin  rug  that  lay  in  front  of  her  dressing- 
table.  All  these  attitudes  and  movements  were  very 
characteristic  of  her;  she  loved  "  getting  close  to 
things,  like  a  cat,"  as  she  once  expressed  it,  taking  a 
somewhat  sensuous,  purring  pleasure  in  the  touch  of 
things  that  were  soft  and  warm.  It  was  all  done,  too, 
with  a  cat's  insinuating  gracefulness. 

'  *  There,  that  makes  me  quite  comfortable, ' '  she  said 


THE    CLIMBER  13 

* '  Aren't  you  glad ?  I  hate  being  not  quite  comfortable, 
and  if  somebody  has  to  be,  I  would  sooner  it  wasn't  me, 
because  I  know  I  hate  it  more  than  most  people.  Yes ; 
they  are  wound  up  by  cathedral  service,  and  it  isn't  in 
the  least  profane  of  me  to  say  so.  Ding,  dong.  Pom, 
pom,  pom.  They  strike  quite  regularly  and  punctually 
all  the  week,  and  never  fail  to  do  their  duty.  How 
Aunt  Cathie  can  reconcile  it  with  her  conscience  to  say 
the  General  Confession  I  don't  know.  She  never  does 
what  she  ought  not,  or  doesn't  what  she  ought.  And  it 
does  make  people  so  dull  to  have  no  failings !  It  does, 
doesn't  it?  And  everyone  at  Brixham  is  so  old;  I  won- 
der they  don't  send  them  all  to  the  British  Museum, 
and  put  them  in  the  new  wing.  It  would  hold  them 
nicely. ' ' 

Maud's  disapproval  was  rapidly  melting.  It  was 
shocking,  of  course,  to  speak  of  your  aunts  like  this,  but 
somehow  Lucia's  frankness  disarmed  censure.  Maud 
realized  that  had  she  been  in  Lucia's  place  she  would 
almost  certainly  have  thought  these  things,  though  her 
thoughts  would  not  have  been  cast  quite  in  Lucia's 
humorous  mould,  and  her  inimitable  friend  only  said 
what  she  herself  would  have  been  unable  to  find  words 
for.  But  she  made  one  faint  attempt  to  indicate  a  more 
proper  attitude. 

"  Oh,  Lucia,  but  they  are  so  kind  to  you,"  she  said. 
'*  You  have  often  told  me  so." 

"  Yes,  the  darlings,  but  theirs  is  the  true  kindness, 
you  know,  which  seeks  to  improve  one.  Of  course  it  is 
very  right  that  one  should  be  improved,  but  it  is  nicer, 
you  know,  to  be  allowed  to  enjoy  yourself.  Besides — 
this  is  one  of  the  things  I  have  just  begun  to  see — I  am 
not  really  capable  of  improvement.  I'm  not  wound  up 


14  THE   CLIMBER 

by  cathedral  service ;  what  winds  me  up  is  theatres  and 
operas  and  dances,  and  all  the  movements  of  life  and 
its  gaieties.  They  make  me  most  myself,  just  as  Aunt 
Cathie  is  most  herself  after  early  service." 

Maud  made  a  decided  movement  at  this. 

'  *  Oh,  don 't,  Lucia, ' '  she  said.  ' '  We  can  all  make  the 
best  of  ourselves  or  the  worst  of  ourselves.  We  can  all 
laugh  at  what  we  know  to  be  sacred " 

Lucia  interrupted. 

' '  Oh,  my  dear,  that  is  exactly  where  you  are  wrong, ' ' 
she  said.  "  You  can't,  for  instance;  you  couldn't  do  it, 
because  you  are  good.  Well,  I'm  not  good.  I'm  a 
beast.  But  whether  we  are  good  or  beasts,  we  all  want 
to  enjoy  ourselves ;  we  want  to  be  happy.  And  we  all 
make  plans  to  be  happy.  Aunt  Cathie  and  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth both  make  heaps  of  plans.  They  go  to  all  the 
church  congresses  and  hospitals,  and  homes  for  forc- 
ing people  to  be  reclaimed,  which  I  think  is  such  a  lib- 
erty to  take  with  anyone.  Fancy  being  reclaimed  when 
you  didn't  want  to!  That  is  quite  an  unwarrantable 
thing  to  do." 

Maud  again  stiffened. 

"  Oh,  Lucia,  you  are  talking  nonsense,"  she  said. 
"  Do  stop  and  let  me  brush  your  hair." 

Lucia  suddenly  pulled  her  feet  out  of  the  rug  and 
clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees. 

"  But  it  isn't  nonsense,"  she  said.  "  It  is  interfer- 
ing with  a  person's  liberty  to  try  to  make  him  better,  if 
he  wants  to  be  worse.  He  has  got  a  right  to  be  worse  if 
he  likes.  Everybody  is  himself  and  especially  herself, 
if  you  see  what  I  mean." 

"  I  don't  quite,"  said  Maud. 

11  Then  it's  very  stupid  of  you.   What  I  mean  is  that 


THE    CLIMBER  15 

women  know  more  about  themselves,  and  assert  their 
natures  more  than  men  do.  Look  at  the  undergradu- 
ates at  Cambridge.  They  are  all  exactly  alike.  They 
all  smoke  pipes,  and  flirt  if  they  have  a  chance,  and 
wear  the  same  clothes,  and  play  games.  I  don't  think  I 
like  men.  But  they  like  me. ' ' 

That  was  so  frightfully  true  that  Maud  could  not 
deny  it.  But  in  the  barest  justice  it  is  due  to  Lucia  to 
say  that  she  made  this  statement  without  complacency, 
but  with  complete  unconcern.  The  immediate  sequence 
of  her  discourse  explained  this. 

"  But  among  all  the  bad  things  which  I  assuredly 
am,"  she  continued,  "  I  am  not  a  flirt.  I  suppose  I 
should  be  if  it  amused  me.  It  doesn't.  I  think — I  think 
I  might  like  a  kind  old  man  most  awfully,  and  be  will- 
ing to  kiss  him  and — and  do  all  that  sort  of  thing.  But 
I  don 't  like  young  men.  Oh,  Maud,  I  am  turning  round 
like  a  person  who  is  being  tried  on!  But  I  want  to  go 
back  a  bit.  It  isn't  the  left  side — that's  where  the  heart 
is  supposed  to  be,  isn't  it — that  I  want  you  to  look  at. 
It's  my  hat  you  must  look  at — my  head,  my  brain. 
Darling,  it  isn't  a  nice  one.  There's — what  shall  I 
say — too  much  feather  in  it." 

Maud  felt  a  sudden  impulse  of  loyalty  to  her  friend, 
though  it  was  Lucia  who  was  depreciating  herself. 

"  There  isn't,"  she  said.  "  Not  a  scrap.  It's  just 
right;  it  is  perfect.  It's  you." 

"  That's  true  anyhow,"  said  Lucia.  "It's  me.  And 
that 's  what  I  have  been  finding  out  all  this  week.  I  al- 
ways used  to  think  I  hadn't  got  anything  of  my  own 
except  one  hundred  pounds  a  year  and  a  sense  of  the 
ridiculous.  But  I  find  I  have:  I've  got  myself.  Not 
nice,  but  myself." 


16  THE    CLIMBER 

Lucia  suddenly  abandoned  the  cat-like  attitude,  and 
jumped  up. 

'  *  I  want,  I  want, ' '  she  cried,  * '  like  those  little  people 
in  the  Blake  drawing,  putting  the  ladder  up  to  the 
moon.  But  I  don't  want  the  moon  at  all,  thank  you.  I 
want  horses  and  carriages  and  motor  cars  and  dances 
and  theatres  and  money.  I  used  always  to  enjoy  those 
things  when  they  came  in  my  way,  but  now  I  find  they 
are  what  I  want.  It's  a  sad  revelation,  isn't  it?  It 
means  I  am  worldly  and  material,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
unedifying  things  on  which  our  affections  shouldn't  be 
set,  but  there  it  is.  I  have  been  nobody  before ;  now  I 
am  beginning  to  be  myself.  Not  a  nice  self,  oh,  not  nice 
at  all,  but  it  is  so  much  better  to  be  oneself  than  to  be 
nobody. ' ' 

Maud's  natural  reticence  became  intensely  embar- 
rassing to  her,  so  embarrassing  as  to  make  her 
very  self-conscious  for  the  moment.  She  felt  her- 
self desiring  to  "  take  a  line  "  with  Lucia,  in- 
stead of  taking  it.  But  it  was  Lucia's  sudden  and 
perplexing  consciousness  of  herself  that  induced 
it,  though  that  self-consciousness  was  so  different 
in  form  from  hers  that  it  seemed  to  be  but  ironi- 
cal to  call  it  by  the  same  name.  Then  Lucia 's  attack  of 
this  distressing  symptom  left  her,  and  she  became 
cruelly  critical  instead. 

"  I  love  you,  Maud,"  she  said.  "  You  are  all  that  I 
ought  to  want  to  be.  But  I  don't.  You  are  kind,  and 
good,  and  sympathetic,  and  above  all  you  are  fond  of 
me.  That,  after  all,  is  the  quality  one  likes  best  in 
others." 

"  But  you  said  just  now  you  didn't  like  men  who 
liked  you, ' '  remarked  Maude. 


THE   CLIMBER  17 

Lucia  waved  her  hands  in  a  sort  of  impotent  despair. 

"  Well,  what  if  I  did?  It  was  inconsistent,  I  sup- 
pose. But  what's  the  good  of  being  inconsistent?  It 
is  the  dullest  possible  state  to  be  in.  I -wish  you 
wouldn't  interrupt  when  the  spirit  of — anything  you 
like — is  upon  me." 

Maud  was  obediently  silent.  It  appeared  that  this 
attitude  did  not  suit  Lucia  any  better. 

"  Darling,  you  are  dignifiedly  mute,"  she  said. 
"  You  adopt  a  disapproving  silence,  like  Aunt  Cathie 
when  she  hasn't  anything  to  say.  It  does  irritate 
me  so." 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  talking  nonsense,"  said  Maud 
firmly. 

'  *  You  said  that  before. ' ' 

"  Because  you  talked  nonsense  before." 

Lucia  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  room  be- 
fore she  answered,  setting  square  to  each  other  the  can- 
dles on  her  dressing-table,  and  pulling  up  the  blind  a 
little  so  that  its  wooden  binder  no  longer  tapped 
against  the  edge  of  the  open  window.  She  felt  checked, 
as  if  some  quiet  steady  force  had  a  hand  on  her  rein, 
and  she  instinctively  felt  the  reasonableness  of  the  firm 
and  solid  touch. 

"  Explain  then,"  she  said. 

1  i  Well,  come  and  sit  quietly  again,  where  you  sat  be- 
fore, ' '  said  Maud.  '  *  It  is  no  use  explaining  to  a  hurri- 
cane." 

"  Hurricane!    Me?  "  asked  Lucia. 

"  Yes,  hurricane.  But  you  know  I  am  so  bad  at  ex- 
plaining; I  feel,  but  I  can't  tell  you  what,  even  when 
you  are  patient,  which  you  so  seldom  are.  Whereas, 
you  can  explain  a  thing  without  particularly  feeling  it. 


18  THE   CLIMBEK 

I  agree  with  your  Aunt  Cathie,  wasn't  it?  You  say 
more  than  you  mean." 

"  I  am  always  patient,"  said  Lucia  with  emphasis. 
"  But  do  get  on." 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  you  have  been  talking  nonsense, 
and  rather  dangerous  nonsense,"  said  Maud.  "  I 
mean  it  is  nonsense  that  might  become  sense  to  you. 
You  tell  me,  as  you  have  been  telling  yourself,  that  you 
are  not  nice  inside,  that  you  want  only  the  cushions  and 
pillows  of  life,  that  you  are  willing  to  let  a  kind  old 
man  be  kind  to  you.  Oh,  Lucia,  thank  God  it  is  non- 
sense! ' 

Maud  spoke  very  slowly,  and  her  utterance  was  as 
unlike  Lucia 's  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine  two  products 
of  vocal  cords  to  be.  Lucia's  words  flashed  and  twin- 
kled with  the  speed  and  movement  of  her  own  mind, 
her  own  gestures;  Maud's  were  slow  and  spaced,  and 
each  word  seemed  to  mean  what  it  was  supposed  to 
mean  by  makers  of  dictionaries.  When  she  said 
"  thank  God,"  for  instance,  it  was  perfectly  clear  that 
she  meant  "  thank  God,"  but  when  the  same  phrase 
was  on  Lucia's  lips,  it  meant  "  I  am  happy  to  tell  you," 
neither  more  nor  less.  And  something  of  the  conscious- 
ness of  this  flashed  out  in  her  reply. 

"  Go  on,  dear  aunt,"  she  said. 

Maud  did  not  seem  to  resent  this  in  the  least ;  indeed, 
at  heart  she  rather  liked  it. 

"  Yes,  your  aunt  will  go  on,"  she  said;  "  in  fact,  she 
fully  means  to.  Dear  niece,  you  think  you  have  found 
yourself,  that  you  are  conscious  of  your  individuality. 
You  aren't  in  the  least.  All  you  have  said  is  quite 
characteristic  of  all  you  have  been  as  long  as  I  have 
known  you " 


THE   CLIMBER  19 

"  That  may  be,"  said  Lucia  quickly;  "  the  point  is 
that  I  am  aware  of  it." 

11  Well,  I'm  not,"  said  Maud  slowly.  "  When  you 
tell  me  what  you  want  from  life,  I  reply  that  you  don't 
know  what  you  want.  If  you  were  becoming  a  woman — 
oh,  Lucia,  I  am  so  much  older  than  you  really — you 
would  be  beginning  to  be  conscious  of  the  want — it 
sounds  so  dreadfully  indelicate — of  one  of  the  men  you 
say  you  don't  like.  You  would  think  about — about 
children,  babies,  soft  helpless  things,  not  motor-cars." 

Lucia  leaned  back  her  head. 

"  Maud,  you're  crying,"  she  said;  "  don't  cry  over 
me.  Besides,  why  are  you  crying!  " 

"I'm  not,"  said  Maud.  "  And  if  I  was,  I  shouldn't 
tell  you  why." 

"  Why?   We  always  tell  each  other  everything." 

If  she  was  not  crying,  she  was  somewhat  perilously 
near  it.  But  at  this,  she  ceased  to  deserve  the  soft  im- 
putation. 

"  I  don't  think  we  always  do,"  she  said.  "  We  both 
of  us  have  our  private  places,  I  expect. ' ' 

"  Perhaps  you  have  from  me,"  said  Lucia.  "  But  I 
haven't  from  you." 

To  the  softer  but  sterner  spirit  this  was  wounding. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Maud.  "  I  really  am.  I  won't 
have  private  places  from  you.  I  will  let  you  into — the 
only  one.  Indeed,  indeed,  I  would  have  before,  Lucia, 
but  I  didn't  know  about  it  before." 

Lucia  looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  amazed  distrust. 

* '  Do  you  mean  you  are  in  love  ?  ' '  she  asked.  ' '  With 
a  stupid  young  man?  " 

Maud  took  up  pools  from  Lucia's  gold  cataract  of 
hair,  half  burying  her  face  in  it. 


20  THE   CLIMBER 

"  Yes,  I  expect  that  is  what  you  would  call  it,"  she 
said. 

"  And  who  is  he!  "  asked  Lucia.  "  We  promised  to 
tell  each  other." 

Maud,  still  hidden,  gave  a  long  sigh,  and  her  voice 
was  muffled. 

"  I  know  we  did,"  she  said.  "  And  I  can't  tell  you, 
though  I  thought  I  could.  When  it  comes  to  you,  you 
will  know,  Lucia.  It — it  is  too  private,  at  first.  No 
doubt  I  shall  tell  you  before  long." 

"  But  why  '  at  first  '?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  I  can't  say.  I  only  feel  that  I  am  not  used  to  the 
private  room  myself  yet,  and  that  I  can't  let  anybody 
else  in.  I  would  if  I  could.  At  least,  I  would  let  you  in, 
no  one  else." 

"  And  all  the  time  he  is  probably  talking  about 
you  as  an  i  awful  ripper,'  ;  '  said  Lucia  contemp- 
tuously. 

"  I  wish  I  thought  he  was,"  said  Maud  with  the 
utmost  sincerity. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Maud  unmuffled  her  face 
again  and  laid  cool  finger-tips  on  Lucia's  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  what  was  that?  "  said  she.  "  Oh,  I  see.  You 
startled  me  a  little." 

Maud  was  still  struggling  for  utterance. 

11  Am  I  a  beast,  Lucia?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  are." 

11  But  I  don't  mean  to  be.  You — you  may  guess  if 
you  like." 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  guess  for  the  last  ten  min- 
utes," remarked  Lucia.  "  Is  he  good-looking?  ' 

"  I  don't  know  if  yon  would  think  so.  It  doesn't 
matter  much,  does  it?  ' 


THE   CLIMBER  .    21 

"  I  suppose  it  matters  more  that  you  are.  Is  he 
clever?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maud. 

"  And  I  know  him?  " 

' '  You  have  danced  with  him !  ' 

"  How  enlightening!  as  if  I  knew  all  the  people  I 
have  danced  with!  " 

Lucia  suddenly  sat  up  again. 

11  Don't  interrupt,"  she  said.  "  His  name  is — is  Ed- 
gar Comber.  Isn't  itt  Heavens!  Oh,  Maud,  how  aw- 
fully nice  for  him !  Does  he  know  yet,  do  you  think  f  ' 

Maud  flushed. 

"  Oh,  Lucia,  how  can  you  say  such  awful  things?  ' 
she  whispered. 

"  Why  are  they  awful?  A  man  lets  a  girl  see  that  he 
is  attracted  by  her  fast  enough.  It  is  quite  silly  that  a 
girl  shouldn't  let  a  man  see  that  she  is  attracted  by 
him.  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  straightforward  not  to. 
It  seems  rather  secretive.  If  I  saw  a  man  I  really  liked 
I  should  run  after  him  as  hard  as  I  could  and  not  give 
him  a  chance  of  escaping  if  I  could  help.  I  think  it  is 
the  sensible  thing  to  do ;  it  is  so  early- Victorian  to  bend 
your  head  over  your  fancy  work,  or  avert  it  with  a  pink 
blush  as  you  walk  in  a  grove.  What  is  a  grove  ?  It  is 
always  coming  in  in  Jane  Austen's  books,  which  I  find 
dull.  Whatever  I  am,  I  am  not  early- Victorian.  Mind, 
I  should  only  run  after  a  man  if  I  really  meant  to  catch 
him.  I  think  flirting  is  silly  and  not  quite  fair.  A  flirt 
leads  a  man  on,  and  leads  him  on,  and  then  suddenly 
puts  her  nose  in  the  air  as  if  he  was  a  bad  smell,  and 
says  *  What  do  you  mean?  '  "  \ 

Maud  buried  her  face  again  in  Lucia 's  hair. 

11  Oh,  you  do  say  such  dreadful  things,"  she  almost 


22  THE   CLIMBER 

moaned,  ' '  and  I  never  can  answer  them.  At  least  my 
answer  only  is  that  I  am  utterly  different.  Often  you 
say  the  things  that  I  only  think,  but  sometimes  you  say 
things  that  I  couldn't  think." 

"  You  mean  I  have  a  coarse  and  indelicate  nature!  " 
demanded  Lucia. 

"  Yes,  darling,  just  that;  but  it's  only  a  tiny  wee  bit 
of  you,  you  know. ' ' 

"  There  again  you  are  wrong,"  said  Lucia.  "  I  am 
altogether  like  that.  And  altogether,  do  you  know,  it  is 
close  on  one  o'clock.  Not  that  it  matters;  it  is  so  silly 
to  mind  what  the  time  is.  Watches  are  a  sort  of  Frank- 
enstein monster;  men  invented  them,  and  then  are 
haunted  and  shadowed  by  them." 
But  Maud  got  up. 

11  Nearly  one !  "  she  said,  "  and  I  promised  mother  I 
would  be  in  bed  by  twelve." 

"  You've  broken  it,  then,"  said  Lucia,  "  so  let's  go 
on  talking." 

"  No,  we  really  mustn't.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  you 
weren't  going  away  to-morrow." 

"  You  can't  wish  it  more  than  I  do.  Oh,  Maud,  how 
strange  you  are !  You  think  it  more  important  to  go  to 
bed  at  one  because  you  promised  to  do  so  at  twelve, 
than  to  sit  up  and  talk  to  your  poor  friend  who  goes  to — 
well,  purgatory  by  the  11.45  to-morrow!  Especially 
when  this  violently  exciting  thing  has  happened  to  you, 
which  I  want  so  dreadfully  to  talk  about.  Gracious  me, 
if  ever  I  fall  in  love  with  anybody,  you  shan't  be  al- 
lowed to  go  to  bed  for  a  week. ' ' 

"  But  I've  got  nothing  to  say,"  said  Maud,  "it's  so 
strange;  I  don't  know  what  it  feels  like  yet;  I  can  only 
feel." 


THE    CLIMBER  23 

Lucia  looked  sternly  at  her  friend. 

'  *  I  insist  on  hearing  the  symptoms, ' '  she  said,  ' '  for 
future  guidance.  Do  you  want  to  be  with  him  on  a 
moonlight  night  and  write  poetry!  Is  it  that  sort?  " 

"  No;  it  sounds  delightful  but  I  don't  think  it's  that 
sort,"  said  Maud. 

"  Do  you  want  to  change  hats  with  him?  "  asked 
Lucia  inexorably. 

Maud  laughed. 

"  Don't  be  horrid,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Lucia,  your 
hair !  Let  me  put  the  candles  out  and  see  it  sparkle  for 
a  minute." 

* '  Do  you  want  to  brush  his  hair  ?  ' '  continued  Lucia. 
"  Tell  me  about  him  anyhow.  Is  he  rich?  Is  he  serious 
or  flippant?  Serious,  I  hope;  a  flippant  husband 
would  never  do.  Is  he  witty?  Yes,  I  will  allow  he  is 
good-looking,  and  he  can  dance.  Ah,  of  course  he  is 
serious.  I  remember  we  talked  about  the  dances  of 
ancient  Greece,  and  I  could  not  understand  one  word  he 
said.  So  it  must  have  been  serious;  I  always  under- 
stand nonsense.  Maud,  I  never  saw  anyone  so  reticent 
as  you.  What  a  lucky  thing  it  is  for  us,  that  we  have 
got  me  to  do  the  talking. ' ' 

Lucia  sat  down  in  the  chair  in  front  of  her  looking 
glass  and  blew  out  the  candles.  The  blinds  were  down 
over  the  window  and  the  room  was  almost  absolutely 
dark,  so  that  Maud  had  to  feel  for  the  silver-handled 
brush  which  she  had  given  her  friend,  for  no  glimmer 
of  light  shone  on  the  dressing-table;  and  having  found 
it  she  had  to  feel  with  her  hand  to  find  the  golden  bil- 
lows of  Lucia 's  head.  Thick  and  soft  and  warm  they  lay 
there  in  untroubled  calm  at  present;  soon  she  would 
raise  in  them  that  mysterious  tempest  of  fiery  life  that 


24  THE    CLIMBEE 

lay  in  them.  Then,  in  the  darkness  she  began  to  brush, 
and  immediately  almost  the  hidden  vitality  began  to 
manifest  itself.  Strange  little  cracklings  like  the  break- 
ing of  dry  twigs  were  heard,  and  the  great  golden  mass 
that  lay  at  first  so  still  and  composed  under  her  hands 
began  to  rise  as  the  yeast  of  life  worked  in  it.  Each 
hair  grew  endued  with  it,  and  stiffened  itself  apart 
from  the  others,  as  if  asserting  its  own  individuality, 
and  deep  down  in  it  sparks  began  to  light  themselves, 
like  remote  and  momentary  stars,  that  appeared  and 
disappeared.  Then  that  strange  conflagration  grew 
more  general,  from  points  of  lights  there  were  flashes 
of  pale  flame,  so  that,  looking  in  the  glass  in  front,  Maud 
could  see  lit  by  that  mysterious  illumination  her 
friend's  face,  white  and  colourless  and  framed  in  lam- 
bent flashes.  It  looked  like  a  face  scarcely  human;  it 
was  an  abstraction  of  life,  but  half-incarnate,  appear- 
ing and  disappearing  and  glimmering  in  the  reflecting 
surface  with  its  silver  frame. 

11  Oh,  Lucia,  it  almost  frightens  me,'*  she  said. 
"  How  is  it  that  you  hold  all  this  fire?  Is  it  the  fire  in 
you  that  I  love  so,  do  you  think?  Where  does  it  come 
from?  How  do  you  make  it.  Or  does  it  make  you?  ' 

11  I  think  you  must  be  practising  the  love-duet  with 
your  young  man,"  remarked  Lucia. 

"  Oh,  bother  my  young  man,"  said  Maud. 

"  Why  should  you?  I  shall  get  one,  too,  some  day,  I 
suppose.  I  hope  they'll  get  on  nicely  together.  Other- 
wise we  must  divorce  them.  Now  if  you've  quite  fin- 
ished making  a  match-box  of  me;  let  me  find  the  other 
one  and  light  the  candles.  I  am  so  sleepy;  having  my 
hair  brushed  always  makes  me  sleepy.  Thanks  ever  so 
much,  darling." 


CHAPTER  H 

Misses  Grimson  were  at  home  from  four  to 
seven  on  alternate  Tuesdays  in  July,  beginning 
with  the  second  one,  and  July  was  consequently  rather 
a  busy  time  in  Brixham,  since  the  Dean's  wife  also 
gave  alternate  Wednesdays  (luckily  in  different  weeks 
to  those  marked  by  the  fetes  of  the  Misses  Grimson  or 
the  strain  might  have  been  too  severe);  the  Bishop's 
wife  might  be  counted  upon  for  two  garden-parties, 
and  there  was  also  a  cricket  week  given  by  the  officers 
of  the  regiment  stationed  there,  with  tea  and  a  band 
provided  every  day.  In  addition,  the  usual  amount  of 
entertaining  went  on,  but  during  July  the  Misses  Grim- 
son  never  went  out  to  dinner,  since  the  evenings  had  to 
be  kept  free.  And  when  July  was  over,  they  retired  to 
Sea  View  Cottage,  at  Littlestone,  in  order  to  rest  dur- 
ing the  month  of  August,  previous  to  resuming  activi- 
ties in  September. 

Their  house  lay  a  little  outside  the  town,  on  a  hill 
commanding  a  pleasant  view  over  it.  It  lay  a  little  back 
from  the  road,  and  the  front  door  was  approached  by  a 
* '  carriage  sweep  ' '  which  led  in  at  one  gate  and  out  at 
another,  and  its  privacy  was  further  enhanced  by  a  row 
of  laurels  which  lay  between  the  entrance  and  the  exit, 
thus  screening  the  lower  windows  of  the  house.  There 
was  no  mistaking  which  gate  was  which,  because  by  the 
railings  at  one  gate  was  painted  the  word  "  In,"  and 
though  the  corrosion  of  the  elements  had  obliterated 
the  word  "  out  "  at  the  other,  leaving  only  T,  it  was 

25 


26  THE   CLIMBEE 

clear  that  if  one  gate  was  "In,"  the  other  must  be 
"  Out,"  so  that  there  was  no  need  to  have  it  repainted. 
Matters  were  further  facilitated  by  the  fact  that  a 
single  conveyance  filled  up  nearly  the  whole  of  the  car- 
riage sweep,  so  that  any  intelligent  driver,  by  observ- 
ing out  of  which  gate  the  horse's  nose  was  protruding 
could  easily  gather  that  he  must  make  his  entrance  at 
the  other  one,  in  order  to  obviate  the  inconvenience  of 
the  earlier  arrival  going  backward  when  he  should 
have  entered,  since  there  was  not  room  for  two  car- 
riages to  pass.  Two  wheelbarrows  might  have  done 
so  without  collision,  but  no  wheeled  vehicle  of  larger 

size. 

Inside,  on  the  ground  floor,  were  three  sitting-rooms, 
drawing-room   and   dining-room   looking  out   on   the 
carriage  sweep,  while  behind  was  what  was  known  as 
the  writing-room,  where  the  aunts  read  the  paper. 
This  looked  on  to  the  garden,  where  the  lawn  was  of 
sufficient  size  just  to  hold  a  tennis-court,  with  one  pole 
of  the  net  planted  at  the  edge  of  the  flower-border, 
while  the  other  pole  was  so  near  the  path  that  in  going 
round  it  it  was  necessary  to  step  on  to  the  gravel.  Far- 
ther away  a  privet  hedge  screened  the  kitchen  garden 
from  view,  which  stretched  a  distance  of  some  fifty 
yards  to  the  foot  of  the  railway  embankment,  which  ran 
parallel  to  it.    Thus  the  garden  was  not  overlooked  ex- 
cept by  the  windows  of  the  houses  on  each  side  of  it, 
unless  a  train  happened  to  be  stopped  by  signal  im- 
mediately  behind—"  a  thing,"    as   Aunt    Cathie    re- 
marked once  to  an  inquiring  tenant  for  the  month  of 
August,  when  the  family  would  be  at  the  seaside,  "  that 
did  not  happen  once  in  a  Blue  Moon."  What  a  Blue 
Moon  might  be  (the  capitals  represent  the  peculiar  em- 


THE   CLIMBER  27 

phasis  that  Aunt  Cathie  put  on  the  words)  neither  she 
nor  the  tenant  was  exactly  aware,  but  as  a  train  did 
not  stop  there  once  in  one,  there  was  no  need  to  es- 
tablish its  precise  nature. 

Aunt  Cathie  at  this  moment  was  doing  two  things  at 
once,  which  she  always  recommended  Lucia  never  to  at- 
tempt— she  was  waiting  for  Lucia's  arrival  from  town, 
and  she  was  contemplating  the  flower-bed  with  rather 
magisterial  severity,  as  if  she  expected  flowers  to  open 
if  she  looked  at  them  hard  enough.  Certainly  the  gar- 
den was  very  backward;  one  cold  week  had  succeeded 
another,  and  unless  the  sun  did  something  decent  in  the 
next  month,  there  would  not  be  the  * '  blaze  of  colour  ' ' 
which  ought  to  dazzle  their  guests  when  they  came  for 
the  first  alternate  Tuesday  in  July.  The  "  blaze  of 
colour  ' '  was  not  her  own  phrase ;  the  Bishop  had  said 
the  garden  was  a  blaze  of  colour  to  Elizabeth  two  years 
ago,  and  the  very  next  Sunday  after  he  had  preached 
in  the  cathedral,  drawing  a  parallel  between  the  gar- 
dens of  men's  houses  and  the  gardens  of  men's  souls, 
again  using  that  vivid  expression,  so  that  it  was  fair 
to  conclude  that  this  flower-bed  had  inspired  him,  which 
was  a  very  gratifying  thought. 

Aunt  Cathie  might  have  been  fifty,  but  she  was  not. 
Instead  she  was  nearly  sixty,  while  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
who  might  have  been  sixty,  was  more  nearly  the  age 
that  Aunt  Cathie  might  have  been.  In  other  respects, 
too,  each  of  the  two  sisters  seemed  confusingly  like 
what  the  other  might  be  expected  to  be,  for  Aunt 
Cathie,  with  an  almost  truculent  appearance  and 
abrupt  demeanour,  was  of  an  extraordinarily  tender 
heart,  while  Aunt  Elizabeth,  who  appeared  soft  and 
aged  and  effete,  was  gifted  with  a  nature  of  almost  in- 


28  THE   CLIMBER 

credible  obstinacy,  and,  to  put  the  matter  quite  frankly, 
was  as  hard  as  nails. 

It  was  over  Elizabeth's  hardness  that  Cathie  was 
pondering  as  she  looked  at  the  garden-bed.  They  had 
had  some  discussion  about  it  earlier  in  the  morning, 
considering  it  in  its  relation  to  the  tennis  court. 

"  Of  course,  the  garden  is  your  affair,  Catherine," 
Elizabeth  had  said  (Catherine  was  a  word  used  by  her 
only  in  ultimatums  and  on  other  disapproving  occa- 
sions);  "  and  if  you  like  to  have  it  looking  like  the 
desert  of  Sahara  and  the  Dead  Sea  when  our  guests 
come  here  in  July  it  is  a  matter  that  concerns  you.  I 
hope  I  never  intrude  my  advice  when  it  is  not  wanted, 
but  there  are  occasions  when  it  becomes  a  duty  to  say 
what  is  in  one 's  mind. ' ' 

Elizabeth  always  spoke  very  slowly  and  distinctly, 
and  in  a  die-away  voice,  as  if  she  had  scarcely  strength 
left  for  the  mere  enunciation.  But  her  voice  never 
quite  died  away  until  she  had  completely  finished  what 
she  wished  to  say.  She  would  then  usually  intimate, 
with  a  closing  of  the  eyes  and  a  slight  shiver,  that  the 
subject  might  be  considered  as  ended.  She  invariably, 
however,  returned  to  it  herself  a  little  later,  and  said 
her  say  over  again. 

"  What  do  you  advise  then,  Elizabeth?  "  asked 
Cathie. 

"  Dismiss  Johnson  at  once  and  get  somebody  who 
will  condescend  to  garden." 

"  But  he's  so  old,  dear,"  said  Catherine,  "  and  so 
extremely  incompetent.  He  would  never  get  another 
place.  I  don't  think  I  can  dismiss  him.  You  see,  I  pay 
his  wages." 

"  That  is  a  quibble,  Catherine.    I  pay  Jane's,  and  I 


THE   CLIMBER  29 

hope  you  find  your  room  perfectly  cleaned.  Otherwise 
pray  mention  it,  and  if  fault  must  be  found,  I  will 
find  it." 

* '  No,  Jane  is  a  good  girl, ' '  said  Cathie,  l '  but  short 
of  dismissing  Johnson,  can't  you  suggest  anything?  ' 

"  Well,  it  is  absurd  to  let  the  lawn  be  used  for  a 
tennis-court  in  these  few  weeks  before  our  parties. 
Lucia  can  play  tennis  all  the  year  round  from  Septem- 
ber till  May " 

' '  I  never  heard  of  anybody  playing  lawn  tennis  from 
September  till  May,"  interpolated  Catherine. 

11  There  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be  played," 
said  Elizabeth, ' '  in  the  frosts.  I  was  saying,  when  you 
interrupted  me,  that  unless  you  prefer  to  have  the  lawn 
looking  like  an  abandoned  cabbage  patch  in  an  allot- 
ment, when  we  entertain  our  friends,  it  would  be  better 
not  to  have  it  continually  trampled  down  and  run  about 
on  just  before.  Not  to  mention  the  decimation  o£  such 
flowers  as  there  are  by  the  search  for  balls,  and  the  loss 
of  balls  even  when  they  are  searched  for.  That  is  an- 
other point :  you  bought  Lucia  a  set  of  new  balls  last 
year,  and  I  see  you  have  bought  her  another  set 
to-day." 

"  They  are  a  birthday  present,  Elizabeth,"  said 
Cathie. 

"  Indeed.    May  I  ask  what  they  cost?  ' 

"  Twelve  shillings.  It  isn't  extravagant.  They  last 
longer  than  the  cheap  ones. ' ' 

Elizabeth  took  up  her  paper  again  with  a  little 
shiver. 

"  The  kettle-holder  you  gave  me  on  my  last  birthday 
is  most  useful  to  me,  Catherine,"  she  observed  in  a  fal- 
tering voice. 


30  THE   CLIMBER 

These  were  the  things  that  Catherine  thought  over 
as  she  looked  at  the  unpromising  flower-bed,  and  the 
lawn  which  beyond  all  denying  showed  traces  of  tram- 
pled usage.  But  it  was  chiefly  Elizabeth's  unkindness 
that  occupied  her,  and  the  worst  thing  about  Eliza- 
beth's unkindness  was  that  it  always  sprang  from  solid 
facts.  She  never  imagined  grievances,  she  took  the 
bare  bones  of  existence  and  held  them  up  before  you  in 
their  mere  crude  hardness  of  outline.  It  was  perfectly 
true,  for  instance,  that  Johnson  was  a  most  incompe- 
tent gardener,  besides  being  of  almost  patriarchal  age ; 
it  was  also  true  that  Catherine's  present  to  Elizabeth 
on  her  last  birthday  had  been  a  kettle-holder,  and  a  re- 
markably cheap  one,  too ;  it  was  true  also  that  she  had 
given  Lucia  a  set  of  lawn-tennis  balls  that  cost  twelve 
shillings.  But  somehow  when  Elizabeth  did  no  more 
than  state  these  facts  without  comment  o£  any  kind,  it 
was  not  only  Elizabeth  who  seemed  unkind,  but 
Cathie 's  own  conduct  that  seemed  unkind  likewise. 

"  And  I'm  not  unkind,"  she  said  to  herself,  in  trucu 
lent  bass  undertones. 

To  have  looked  at  her,  to  have  talked  with  her,  ex- 
cept under  favourable  circumstances  to  have  even  lived 
in  the  house  with  her,  would  not  have  convinced  any  of 
quite  average  intelligence  that  Catherine  was  of  gentle 
heart,  and  so  to  speak,  of  a  defenceless  nature.  She 
looked,  as  Elizabeth  was,  as  hard  as  nails,  and  even 
those  who  most  habitually  visited  their  house  at  Brix- 
ham,  would  have  said  that  Catherine  was  the  dominant 
spirit,  and  that  the  gentle  Elizabeth  groaned  under  her 
yoke.  She  was  tall,  a  little  gaunt  in  face  and  hard  of 
feature,  and  a  gruff  masculinity  of  voice  and  an 
abrupt  address  confirmed  the  impression  made  by  her 


THE    CLIMBER  31 

appearance.  Her  very  acts  of  kindness  were  obscured 
by  the  uncompromising  character  of  her  manners,  and 
it  is  doubtful  whether  Johnson  himself  would  not  have 
said  that  of  the  two  sisters  Miss  Cathie  represented 
justice  and  Miss  Elizabeth  mercy.  She  was  reticent 
also,  and  constitutionally  incapable  of  showing  her  real 
self  to  others  except  in  kind  deeds  so  ungraciously  per- 
formed as  to  make  them  of  doubtful  import,  and  she 
seemed  ashamed  of  them,  hastening  to  cover  them  up 
with  gruff  speeches. 

It  was  a  tragedy  of  elderly  spinsterhood,  in  fact,  that 
was  daily  played  by  her.  Hypocrite  she  could  not  be 
called,  since  it  was  not  in  her  power,  as  far  as  she  was 
aware,  to  put  into  her  outward  appearance  and  man- 
ners the  kindliness  that  was  hers,  though  if  to  be  a 
hypocrite  is  to  conceal  one's  real  nature,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  it  is  hard  to  see  why  she  should  not  fall  un- 
der the  name,  unless  intentional  concealment  is  a  neces- 
sary qualification.  Hypocrisy,  at  any  rate,  was  forced 
on  her ;  she  was  incapable  of  showing  her  best ;  she  ha- 
bitually kept  it  out  of  sight,  even  as  others  conceal 
their  worst,  and  it  was  this  involuntary  concealment 
that  all  her  life  had  been  her  tragedy.  As  something 
of  a  hoyden  when  a  girl,  she  had  yearned  for  the  soft 
joys  of  womanhood  and  the  hard  sweet  duties  of  wife- 
hood,  yet  all  the  time  she  hid  herself,  and  though  long- 
ing to  embrace  and  welcome  the  common  lot  of  woman- 
kind, she  had  held  herself  at  arm's  length.  And  as  the 
years  went  by,  they  brought  no  merciful  hardening  to 
her  nature ;  outwardly  she  became  a  little  more  grim,  a 
little  less  cordial  in  manner,  but  the  passage  of  time 
which  stiffened  her  joints — for  she  suffered  a  good  deal 
of  silent  discomfort  from  rheumatism — brought  no 


32  THE    CLIMBER 

stiffening  to  her  soul.  Her  heart  had  remained,  in- 
deed, most  inconveniently  young,  its  sympathies  were 
all  with  youth  and  its  fervours,  even  at  an  age  when  the 
most  cordial  and  expansive  are  beginning  to  withdraw 
into  themselves  a  little  and  tell  themselves,  with  good 
sense,  that  these  things  are  no  longer  for  them,  and 
acquiesce  in  their  limitations.  But  poor  Aunt  Cath- 
erine did  not  acquiesce  at  all;  she  daily  rebelled,  and 
daily,  with  a  dreadful  distinctness,  showed  herself  un- 
gracious to  the  view,  but  knew  that  she  but  parodied 
her  real  self. 

It  was  now  a  little  over  a  year  since  Lucia  had  come 
to  live  with  her  aunts,  on  the  death  of  her  father.  Trag- 
edy had  been  at  work  there  also,  and  from  being  a  re- 
spectable and  much  trusted  solicitor,  he  had  ended  his 
own  life,  when  a  long  course  of  systematic  fraudulence 
was  on  the  eve  of  discovery.  Mad  speculation  had  lost 
him  both  his  own  moderate  fortune  and  that  of  his  un- 
fortunate clients,  and  his  only  daughter  had  been  left 
with  the  small  marriage  portion  of  her  mother,  which 
he  had  been  unable  to  touch.  Terrible  as  it  all  was, 
Catherine  had  felt  even  at  the  time  that  here,  though 
coming  late,  and  coming  tragically,  was,  so  to  speak, 
another  chance  for  her  who  had  missed  so  much  in  life 
— Lucia,  it  had  been  settled,  was  to  live  with  her  aunts, 
and  the  thought  of  having  the  girl  in  the  house  had 
filled  her  with  a  longing  and  yearning  joy.  But  disap- 
pointment again  waited  for  her.  It  had  been  Elizabeth 
who  said  a  few  choking  and  faltering  words  of  welcome, 
while  Catherine  stood  there,  knowing  herself  to  be  look- 
ing like  a  grenadier,  while  all  the  time  she  was  longing 
to  make  the  girl  feel  that  she  was  coming  to  one  who 
welcomed  her  with  a  passionate  eagerness.  Indeed,  it 


THE    CLIMBER  33 

was  an  evening  branded  into  her  memory — Lucia  had 
looked  so  tired,  so  forlorn,  so  young  to  be  visited  with 
such  hopeless  trouble,  and  yet  Catherine  could  say 
nothing  to  build  a  bridge  whereby  the  girl's  sorrow 
might  step  into  her  own  heart.  She  had  brought  up  a 
chair  for  her  to  the  fire,  ruffling  the  rug ;  she  had  poked 
the  fire  and  brought  down  shovel  and  tongs  in  disas- 
trous clatter,  and  had  spilt  the  tea  she  handed  her  into 
the  saucer. 

Of  course,  these  were  trifling  things,  and  the  lapse  of 
a  few  hours  would  efface  the  unfortunate  impression, 
but  next  day  it  was  the  same  thing  over  again.  She  had 
come  down  early  to  welcome  the  girl  at  breakfast,  and 
again  she  could  do  no  more  than  peck  her  cheek,  and  ob- 
serve in  her  gruff  baritone : 

"  Hope  you  slept  well.  Less  tired?  No,  that's  your 
Aunt  Elizabeth's  place." 

And  day  had  been  added  to  day,  till  they  grew  to 
weeks,  and  the  weeks  to  months,  and  still  the  barrier 
was  between  them.  Not  long  after  Lucia's  arrival,  as 
has  been  seen,  on  the  occasion  of  her  birthday,  her  aunt 
gave  her  a  set  of  lawn-tennis  balls,  and  herself  helped 
in  the  mowing  of  the  lawn,  though  she  sheared  her 
kindness  of  all  graciousness  by  saying  it  was  the  best 
exercise  she  knew.  Gradually,  too,  it  became  perfectly 
plain  to  her — as  was  indeed  the  case — that  Lucia  found 
life  in  Brixham  very  little  to  her  taste.  Coming  fresh 
from  the  vivid  delights  and  constant  companionship  of 
Girton,  she  felt  lonely  in  this  new  place,  and,  as  was 
but  natural,  could  not  make  friends  of  her  aunt's  el- 
derly acquaintances.  It  was  some  weeks  before  Cath- 
erine realized  that;  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  at  first 
that  Lucia  could  fail  to  find  in  living  with  her  two  el- 


34  THE    CLIMBER 

derly  aunts  the  same  rapturous  possibilities  that  one 
at  least  of  the  elderly  aunts  dreamed  of.  The  realiza- 
tion dawned  slowly,  for  poor  Catherine  knew  well  how 
deeply  she  was  in  sympathy  with  youth,  and  it  was 
long  before  she  grasped  the  depressing  fact  that  to  be 
of  youthful  heart  is  not  in  the  least  the  same  thing  as 
being  young,  especially  when,  as  in  her  case,  her  sym- 
pathy was  a  thing  that  she  was  practically  unable  to 
express  in  any  way.  Moreover,  though  age,  crabbed  or 
not,  is  perfectly  capable  of  dwelling  with  youth  in  al- 
most ecstatic  content,  youth  is  not  capable  of  doing 
anything  of  the  sort  with  age.  She,  at  any  rate,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  months  saw  that,  and  the  fine  in- 
herent justice  of  her  nature  prevented  her  from  think- 
ing, however  remotely,  that  this  was  selfish  or  cruel 
on  the  part  of  youth  in  general,  or  of  Lucia  in  particu- 
lar. Instead  she  labelled  herself  cruel,  and  selfish  in 
not  having  perceived  this  sooner,  and  if,  in  that  point, 
she  did  not  do  justice  to  herself,  severity  in  our  own 
judgment  of  ourselves  is  a  far  more  fruitful  and  ami- 
able quality  than  severity  in  our  judgment  of  others. 

This  period  of  disillusionment  in  regard  to  what  she 
expected  from  Lucia's  advent  was  bitter,  but  it  did 
not  infect  her  with  its  bitterness,  and  day  by  day, 
though  she  saw  her  hopes  fade,  her  silent  old-maid 
love  for  the  girl  grew.  It  was  sad  that  Lucia  did  not 
understand  her;  it  was  sad  that  she  was  quite  incapable 
of  explaining  herself;  but  it  was  saddest  of  all  that 
Lucia  found  this  life  so  dreary  and  tedious.  It  was 
not  that  Lucia  ever  expressed  her  discontent,  or  in- 
deed failed  in  duty  or ,  gratitude  to  her  aunts,  but 
Catherine  felt  in  her  very  bones  how  dull  it  must  be 
for  her.  Their  own  circle,  as  is  the  way  with  two  el- 


THE    CLIMBER  35 

derly  ladies,  had  narrowed  so  imperceptibly  that  they 
had  not  perceived  it,  and  now,  it  must  be  confessed, 
it  was  very  narrow  indeed.  They  still  gave  their  "  at 
homes  "  on  alternate  Tuesdays  in  July,  and  the  small- 
ness  of  the  lawn  made  them  fail  to  see  how  sparsely 
they  were  attended.  And  their  guests — this  fact  Cath- 
erine had  perceived  at  the  first  of  the  alternate  Tues- 
days a  year  ago,  soon  after  Lucia  had  come  to  live 
with  them — were  all  old  or  elderly,  like  themselves. 
Brixham,  no  doubt,  had  its  boys  and  girls,  its  young 
men  and  maidens,  but  these  had  got  shut  out  of  the 
Misses  Grimson's  narrowing  circle,  and  when  she  cast 
about  in  her  own  mind  as  to  whom  to  ask  "  more  of 
an  age  with  Lucia, ' '  she  found  that  she  really  did  not 
know.  A  few  names  had  occurred  to  her,  and  from 
time  to  time  these  had  come  to  play  lawn-tennis  with 
the  new  box  of  balls  in  the  exceedingly  circumscribed 
court,  and  they  again  had  asked  the  girl  to  parties  at 
other  houses.  But  among  these  acquaintances  there 
was  none  that  had  ripened  into  anything  approaching 
friendship.  Lucia,  for  all  her  beauty  and  brilliance,, 
had  in  this  past  year  not  got  near  intimacy  with  any- 
one. That  Aunt  Catherine  knew;  what  she  did  not 
know  was  that  this  was  entirely  her  niece's  fault, 
Lucia  found  Brixham  and  the  girls  whom  she  came 
across  stuffy.  That  might  or  might  not  be  the  case, 
what  undoubtedly  was  the  case  was  that  the  stuffy 
girls  were  not  so  dense  as  not  to  perceive  her  opinion 
of  them.  They  survived  it,  and  got  on  without  her. 
No  one  could  be  more  charming  or  amiable  than  Lucia 
when  she  thought  it  worth  while.  But  she  thought  that 
nothing  about  Brixham  was  in  the  least  worth  while. 
It  is  a  popular  fallacy,  and  one  shared  by  Aunt  Cath- 


36  THE   CLIMBER 


wiiliair  to  be  friends  wl  f  d°"bt'  "^  Pe«P'e 
friendship  is  not  a  on^Med  a«     T  P0886^,  but 
°>ands  a  contribution^  n  handeT    ^  ^  U  de- 
both  parties  who  go  to  the  m^^  Unstinted.  ^om 
those  who  were  w^n2  n  oT^  °   *    And  «™»W 
^cia  was  not  one     fhl  had    ^  Share  at  Bri^am 
^as  nobody  at  any  rafe  as  for        ^  tO  give;  ther« 
called  forth  her  gift    in  .        I  !f  S'16  Percei^d,  who 

f*  it  up,  and  turned  tiSSftSST'  ^  ^ 
deadly,  and  aged.  But  dm  M  Br'^am  was  dull, 
chann  than  she  could  hide  7  D°  m°re  hide  ^ 
Catherine  was  sti,l  SUftj^^^  wM*  Aunt 
lawn  and  the  colourlessn  ,  of  T  7v  bareness  of  the 


because  there  wasn't  r      Z"?  ab°Ut  to  te" 

and  my  ]na  >ne"    *  wal]™d  from  the  sta- 


"»  -M.   "  A,,  w  !M 


THE    CLIMBER  37 

' '  Lucia, ' '  she  said, '  *  I  wonder  if  you  '11  mind.  Hope 
not.  But  lawn-tennis  does  make  the  lawn  so  bare, 
doesn't  it?  Supposing  you  gave  it  up  till  after  our 
parties.  Give  the  grass  a  chance  to  grow. ' ' 

Lucia  turned  now  with  an  air  of  slight  surprise. 

'  *  Oh,  certainly,  if  you  like, ' '  she  said  with  complete 
amiability. 

"  You  don't  mind,  do  you?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  It's  hardly  possible  to  play  ten- 
nis here  anyhow.  There's  scarcely  room." 

Now  six  feet  of  grass  had  been  added  last  autumn  to 
the  end  of  the  lawn,  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  row  of  lobelias, 
a  row  of  yellow  calceolarias,  and  a  row  of  scarlet  ger- 
aniums, in  order  to  make  lawn  tennis  more  possible. 
Lucia  had  not  asked  for  this :  it  had  been  Aunt  Cather- 
ine's  original  thought,  and  she  had  gruffly  explained  at 
the  time  why  it  was  being  done.  The  lawn,  however, 
even  as  Lucia  had  said,  hardly  admitted  of  the  game 
being  played  at  all,  and  she  had  scarcely  played  half 
a  dozen  times  since  it  had  been  done.  Out  of  these 
times,  once  or  twice  she  had  only  played  with  Aunt 
Catherine,  who  had  herself  proposed  a  game,  and  had 
proved  almost  incapable  of  sending  the  ball  over  the 
net  at  all.  She  had  done  it  in  the  hope  of  amusing 
Lucia,  and  Lucia  had  accepted  the  proposal  in  the  hope 
of  amusing  Aunt  Catherine,  wondering  slightly  all  the 
time  how  anybody  could  find  it  amusing  to  throw  up 
the  ball  for  service,  and  fail  to  hit  it  at  all.  But  she 
had  played  with  perfect  good  nature,  and  had  allowed 
Aunt  Catherine  to  serve  faults  almost  indefinitely  with- 
out counting  them. 

But  before  the  pause  after  Lucia's  speech  had  be- 
come prolonged,  the  girl  remembered  the  incident  of 


38  THE    CLIMBER 

the   lengthening   of   the   lawn,   which   she   had   for- 
gotten. 

1 '  Though  it  was  delightful  of  you  to  add  that  extra 
piece,  Aunt  Cathie,"  she  said. 

Somewhere  deep  down  Catherine  felt  she  wanted  to 
explain,  but  she  could  not  explain.  She  felt  no  inclina- 
tion, even,  to  say  that  the  proposal  of  abandoning 
lawn-tennis  originated  from  her  sister,  but  she  wanted 
somehow  to  say  she  was  sorry  that,  in  spite  of  her 
efforts,  the  lawn  was  not  big  enough.  But  that  again 
was  like  an  appeal  to  Lucia,  which  Lucia  would  not 
understand;  it  would  have  been  a  little  symbol  of  so 
much.  • 

"  Very  well  then,"  she  said,  "  if  you  don't  mind, 
we  won't  play  any  more  tennis  till  after  the  parties. 
Perhaps  you  would  like  one  game  first  this  afternoon. ' ' 

Lucia  smiled. 

1  'With  you?  "  she  asked.  "  Yes,  with  pleasure. 
And  isn't  it  lunch-time,  don't  you  think?  I  am  so 
hungry." 

Aunt  Catherine  consulted  a  warming-pan  watch 
which  she  hauled  out  from  some  receptacle  in  her  dress 
like  a  bucket  from  a  well. 

"  Just  lunch-time,"  she  said.  "  Elizabeth  ordered 
cheesecakes.  I  remembered  you  liked  them."  Then 
her  reserve  gave  way  a  little. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come  home,  Lucia,"  she  said, 
"  whether  you  are  sorry  to  leave  London  or  not." 
And  the  moment  it  was  said,  she  realized  how  ill-said 
it  was. 

There  w.as  a  new  cook  at  Fairview  Cottage,  a  very 
godly  woman,  as  Aunt  Elizabeth  so  rightly  desired, 


THE    CLIMBER  39 

but  her  godliness  did  not  lead  to  any  notable  results 
as  regarded  food,  unless  inefficiency  in  a  supreme  de- 
gree can  be  considered  notable.  But  she  said  responses 
so  loudly  at  family  prayers  in  the  morning,  and  fol- 
lowed Aunt  Elizabeth's  reading  in  the  Bible  with  so 
diligent  a  forefinger,  that,  as  she  truly  observed,  it 
showed  a  small  spirit  to  mind  about  the  bacon,  and 
she  thought  Catherine  would  have  been  above  it.  But 
to-day  the  cheesecakes  were  above  Elizabeth  as  well; 
the  pastry  resisted  the  most  determined  assaults  with- 
out showing  signs  of  fracture,  and  Catherine,  in  whose 
mouth  mysterious  alterations  had  lately  been  made, 
had  to  conceal  hers  under  the  bowl  of  her  spoon,  after 
swallowing  with  effort  and  misgiving  what  she  had 
in  her  mouth. 

This  did  not  escape  Elizabeth's  eye. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  like  the  cheesecakes  that 
I  ordered  at  your  request,  Catherine,"  she  said. 
"  Poor  Mrs.  Inglis,  I  am  sure,  did  her  best  but  I  will 
tell  her  you  are  dissatisfied  with  her  cooking." 

11  Try  one  yourself,"  said  Catherine.  "  See  if  you 
can  make  an  impression  on  it." 

' '  I  have  already  eaten  well  and  sufficiently,  Cather- 
ine," said  she.  "  It  is  not  my  habit  to  do  more  than 
that.  No  doubt  Lucia  agrees  with  you. ' ' 

' '  The  pastry  is  rather  tough,  Aunt  Elizabeth, ' '  said 
Lucia. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  find  our  poor  house  very 
rough  and  uncomfortable  after  staying  with  your 
grand  friends  in  London,"  she  said,  folding  her  nap- 
kin and  putting  it  back  into  its  ring. 

Lucia  said  nothing.  It  was  this  sort  of  thing  which 
she  had  meant  when  she  told  Maud  they  talked  a  dif- 


40  THE    CLIMBER 

ferent  language  at  Brixham.  But  what  was  it  pos- 
sible to  answer  when  Aunt  Elizabeth  spoke  of  her 
"  grand  friends  "?  And  seeing  she  said  nothing,  Aunt 
Elizabeth  proceeded  to  follow  up  her  advantage. 

"  Though  I  do  my  best  to  make  the  house  comfort- 
able for  you,"  she  added  tremulously.  "  If  you  have 
finished,  Catherine,  for  what  we  have  received 

Aunt  Elizabeth  had  managed  in  the  course  of  years, 
and  by  dint  of  extreme  ingenuity  in  disposing  of  the 
hours  of  the  day  to  the  least  possible  advantage,  to 
make  herself  feel  exceedingly  busy.  Every  morning 
she  had  to  read  the  paper  and  write  her  letters  (or  let- 
ter as  the  case  might  be)  and  what  with  ordering  dinner, 
it  was  no  wonder  that  it  was  lunch-time  before  she 
knew  she  had  breakfasted.  In  the  afternoon  there  was 
always  some  reason  for  going  into  the  town,  a  dis- 
tance of  a  mile,  where,  every  day,  she  either  ordered 
twopennyworth  of  worsted,  or  a  needle,  or  counter- 
ordered  something  she  had  ordered  the  day  before,  or 
complained  that  something  else  had  not  come.  In- 
deed, it  seldom  happened  that  she  had  not  to  go  into 
Brixham  between  lunch  and  tea,  so  that  the  working 
day  was  already  brimful.  In  addition  she  had  often 
got  to  pay  a  call,  which,  by  dint  of  much  contrivance, 
had  to  be  somehow  wedged  in,  and  on  these  occasions 
she  was  sometimes  as  much  as  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
late  for  tea,  which  again  curtailed  the  hours  between 
tea  and  dinner,  which  were  dedicated  to  her  worsted 
work,  and  this  curtailment  gave  her  the  sense  of  being 
11  driven."  Charity  in  her  case  began  at  home  with 
regard  to  her  work,  and  her  crochet-needle  was  more 
often  than  not  employed  in  mending  the  voluminous 
wool-work  with  which  her  needle  had  already  endowed 


THE    CLIMBEE  41 

Fair  View  Cottage.  There  were  antimacassars  (head- 
mats  she  called  them)  over  every  chair,  there  was  a 
woollen  mat  under  every  ornament,  and  over  every 
footstool  and  under  every  lamp  and  candle  in  the  place. 
The  mats  in  fact  were  quite  ubiquitous — pots  of  plants 
stood  on  them,  books  were  disposed  on  them ;  whatever 
found  place  in  Fair  View  Cottage  had  a  mat  to  put  it 
on.  Thus  it  was  usually  nearly  seven  before  she  could 
get  time  to  work  at  the  shawls  which  at  long  intervals 
she  gave  to  the  old  women  of  the  workhouse,  and  since 
she  dined  at  a  quarter  to  eight  their  shawls  got  on 
very  slowly.  After  dinner  again,  in  the  first  hour  of 
relaxation  she  had  enjoyed  since  she  got  up,  she  per- 
mitted herself  a  game  of  patience,  and  since  she  never 
cheated,  it  was  often  ten  o'clock  before  her  game  was 
over,  and  it  was  necessary  to  go  to  bed.  She  might 
be  late  for  tea  but  there  was  no  trifling  with  bedtime — 
"  bed  "  and  "  ten  "  were  terms  practically  synony- 
mous and  the  exception  that  proved  this  rule  was  that 
when  the  Misses  Grimson  dined  at  the  Deanery  or  at 
three  other  houses  or  went  to  the  Mayor's  evening 
party,  on  his  accession  to  office,  bed  was  synonymous 
with  eleven.  On  that  occasion  breakfast  next  morning 
meant  nine  instead  of  half-past  eight. 

To-day  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  to  go  to  the  draper's, 
which  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  town,  to  match  a 
particular  shade  of  brown,  in  the  woollen  head-rest 
on  the  American  cloth  sofa  in  the  dining-room.  Jane 
had  managed  to  spill  a  plateful  of  soup  over  it,  and  the 
last  three  days  had  passed  for  Aunt  Elizabeth  in  a 
tempest  of  perplexity  as  to  what  had  better  be  done, 
so  copious  had  been  the  soup,  and  so  extensive  the 


42  THE    CLIMBER 

stain.  It  had  been  hung  out  to  dry  on  the  top  of  the 
tennis  net,  and  this  morning  her  time  for  the  perusal 
of  the  paper  had  been  sadly  eaten  into  by  the  need  for 
a  thorough  inspection  of  it.  She  found,  however,  that 
by  cutting  away  some  third  part  of  it,  a  patch  could 
be  constructed,  and  it  was  therefore  necessary  to  get 
brown  wool  of  a  particular  shade  in  large  quantities. 
The  original  shade,  no  doubt,  could  be  easily  procured, 
but  this  head-rest  was  of  some  antiquity,  and  its  rich 
original  brown  had  mellowed  to  a  greyish-yellow  tinge, 
which  she  felt  would  be  hard  to  match.  It  might  have 
been  easier,  perhaps,  to  get  the  draper  to  send  to  Fair 
View  Cottage  samples  of  all  the  bilious  browns  in  his 
possession,  but  this  was  not  Aunt  Elizabeth's  way.  In- 
stead she  wrapped  the  mutilated  head-rest  in  whity- 
brown  paper,  and  set  off  with  it  down  the  sun-baked 
road.  This  would  certainly  take  up  the  hours  till  tea, 
and  she  could  begin  to  work,  supposing  the  right  shade 
was  obtainable,  immediately  afterwards.  It  was  ex- 
tremely tiresome  and  wearing  to  have  this  extra  bur- 
den thrown  on  her  in  all  the  rush  and  bustle  of  July, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  spilling  of  the  soup  was 
equivalent  to  a  robbery  of  a  week  of  her  life.  She  had 
told  Jane  so,  and  Cathie's  offer  to  repair  it  herself 
was  a  ridiculous  proposal,  since  her  wool-work  was  no 
more  than  a  fortuitous  collection  of  running  knots.  No 
doubt  Catherine  knew  when  she  made  the  offer  that  it 
would  be  declined. 

Lucia,  meantime,  managed  to  find  the  famous  tennis- 
balls,  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  were  rather  past  their 
prime,  and  went  out  with  Aunt  Catherine  to  play  lawn- 
tennis.  The  afternoon  was  broiling  hot,  for  summer, 


THE    CLIMBER  43 

long  delayed,  had  come  with  a  vengeance,  and  the  high 
brick  walls  at  the  sides  of  the  garden  and  the  house 
at  one  end,  and  the  railway  embankment  at  the  other, 
effectually  prevented  any  breath  of  wind  reaching  the 
players.  But  the  whitewash  lines  of  the  court  were 
still  faintly  visible,  and  there  were  not  many  holes  at 
the  top  of  the  net,  so  that  a  game  was  easily  practi- 
cable. Aunt  Cathie  had  put  on  a  sun-bonnet  decorated 
with  a  large  black  bow,  and  on  her  feet  she  wore  that 
species  of  covering  known  as  sand-shoes — black  can- 
vas, with  shiny  toes,  such  as  she  wore  on  the  beach  at 
Littlestone — :and  accustomed  though  Lucia  was  to  the 
truculence  of  her  aspect,  it  struck  her  anew  as,  cool 
and  fresh  herself,  she  stepped  out  into  the  blinding 
sunshine  and  found  her  aunt  waiting  for  her. 

The  net  first  required  adjustment,  and  on  Aunt 
Cathie 's  winding  up  the  winch  with  too  zealous  a  hand, 
the  wire  broke,  and  the  net  collapsed.  A  temporary 
repair  was  soon  executed,  and  Aunt  Cathie  began  to 
serve  the  slack,  discoloured  balls.  The  first  two  or 
three,  being  out  of  practice,  she  threw  high  in  the  air 
but  failed  to  hit  altogether  and  then,  by  a  fortuitous 
conjunction  of  circumstances,  she  struck  one  so  vio- 
lently that  it  pitched  among  the  cabbages,  and  had  to 
be  instantly  recovered  before  they  forgot  where  it  had 
gone  to.  Then  Aunt  Cathie  scored  several  faults  of 
different  descriptions;  one  hit  the  ground  at  her  feet, 
one  went  into  the  net,  a  third  knocked  off  the  head 
of  one  of  the  few  geraniums  and  spilled  its  scarlet 
petals  as  by  a  deed  of  blood.  But  after  this,  having 
got  her  hand  in,  she  served  several  to  the  required 
place,  and  Lucia  returned  them  as  gently  as  she  knew 
how.  But  Aunt  Cathie's  bolt,  so  to  speak,  was  shot 


44  THECLIMBEE 

when  she  had  delivered  a  correct  service,  and  she  was 
incapable  of  more,  though  with  extraordinary  gallan- 
try she  rushed  swiftly  and  erratically  to  the  places 
where  Lucia's  returns  had  been  only  a  second  or  two 
before.  And  rarely — so  rarely — did  she  ever  send  a 
ball  into  her  opponent's  court. 

Slowly,  as  this  parody  of  a  game  continued,  Lucia's 
forehead  gathered  itself  into  little  puckers,  and  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  got  rather  firm  and  hard,  for 
neither  did  her  sense  of  humour  nor,  which  was  much 
worse,  did  any  sense  of  compassion  or  tenderness  come 
to  her  aid.  She  only  knew  that  it  was  all  most  tire- 
some and  ridiculous.  Humour  might  possibly  have 
left  her  kindly,  and  had  she  smiled  or  even  laughed  at 
the  figure  of  Aunt  Cathie,  unspeakably  attired,  hurry- 
ing with  her  large  flat  feet  and  flapping  sun-bonnet  to 
where  a  ball  had  been  a  few  moments  before,  and  strik- 
ing wildly  at  the  innocent  and  empty  air,  her  impa- 
tience and  intolerance  might  have  evaporated.  But  the 
sight  did  not  amuse  her;  she  was  vexed  and  bored. 
And  still  further  from  her  than  amusement  was  any 
feeling  of  tenderness.  To  her  mind  there  was  no 
pathos  in  the  fact  that  Aunt  Cathie  should  skip  about 
like  this  in  the  sun.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  secret 
tragedy,  of  the  lonely  elderly  heart  that  still  ached 
for  and  yearned  toward  the  youth  it  had  never  really 
known.  Yet  it  was  not  altogether  her  fault,  for  her 
aunt  was  an  adept  at  concealing  what  she  longed  to 
express  and  cloaking  what  she  pined  to  exhibit. 

And  so  the  dreary  game  went  on,  typical  to  the  girl 
of  her  life  here,  of  its  unutterable  tedium,  of  its  joyless 
monotony,  of  its  rare  and  lugubrious  festivities.  Tire- 
some though  it  was,  she  scarcely  wished  it  to  be  ended, 


THE    CLIMBER  45 

because  there  was  nothing  coming  afterward,  She 
would  hold  skeins  while  Aunt  Elizabeth  wound  them, 
there  would  follow  dinner  and  afterwards  she  would 
observe  Aunt  Elizabeth  vainly  wrestling  with  patience, 
while  Aunt  Cathie  dozed  over  a  book,  until  the  clock 
on  the  chimney-piece  chimed  a  querulous  ten,  as  if  con- 
tradicting someone  who  denied  the  fact.  They  would 
all  kiss  each  other  and  say  good-night,  and  retire  with 
bed-candles,  to  recover  in  sleep  from  the  effects  of  this 
annihilating  day,  and  get  strength  for  the  next,  which 
would  be  exactly  like  this. 

It  all  happened  as  Lucia  had  foreseen ;  she  only  had 
not  an  imagination  quite  vivid  enough  to  realize  the 
details  of  the  monotony.  Aunt  Elizabeth,  for  instance, 
instead  of  being  sour  at  tea,  was  bright  and  agreeable, 
but  when  the  cause  of  her  unusual  sociability  was  de- 
clared, it  seemed  to  Lucia  that  she  was  deadlier  than 
ever.  For  it  had  happened  that  she  had  found  exactly 
the  bilious  shade  necessary  for  the  repair  of  the  head- 
rest, and  the  spilt  soup  would  therefore  not  stain  the 
honour  of  the  family  for  ever,  as  had  once  seemed 
probable.  But  this  ray  of  brightness  again  had  been 
firmly  extinguished  when  it  came  to  her  ears  that 
Catherine  and  Lucia  had  been  playing  lawn-tennis. 

"  After  your  frivolous  afternoon,  Lucia,"  she  said, 
"  I  suppose  you  would  find  it  intolerable  to  hold  my 
skein.  I  shall  be  able  to  manage  perfectly  well 
with  two  chairs,  if  you  want  to  amuse  yourself 
again. ' ' 

So  the  lawn-tennis  was  officially  amusing!  Lucia 
felt  that  irony  had  said  its  last  word.  The  infinitesimal 
quality  of  it  all  crushed  her;  she  almost  besought  to 


46  THE    CLIMBER 

be  allowed  to  hold  the  dreadful  skein.    And,  as  a  fa- 
vour, she  was  permitted  to  do  so. 

Again  after  dinner  the  patience  "  went  out  "  by  9.23 
P.M.,  which  encouraged  Aunt  Elizabeth  to  tempt  the 
laws  of  chance  again.  So  engrossed  was  she  that  for 
the  first  time  in  Lucia's  memory  she  did  not  hear  the 
clock  strike  ten,  while  Aunt  Cathie,  tired  with  her  un- 
usual exertions,  had  fallen  into  a  deeper  doze  than 
usual.  So  it  was  a  momentous  evening  and  far  more 
full  of  incident  than  usual. 


CHAPTER  HI 

E  CIA'S  room  was  a  big  attic  at  the  top  of  the  house 
which  she  had  got  possession  of  not  without  debate. 
It  seemed  very  odd  to  both  her  aunts  that  she  should 
prefer  this  isolated  room  among  the  roofs  to  the  spare 
room  on  the  first  floor  with  its  thick  carpet,  its  ubiqui- 
tous woollen  mats,  its  impenetrable  curtains  across  the 
pitch-pine  windows,  and  the  solid  suitability  of  the  wal- 
nut suite  of  mid- Victorian  date.  But  Lucia  had  urged, 
not  without  reason  (though  her  real  reasons  were 
others),  that  she  could  not  occupy  the  best  spare  bed- 
room if  there  was  another  guest  in  the  house  but  would 
have  to  transfer  her  goods  on  those  occasions  to  the 
dressing-room  adjoining.  But  if  she  might  have  the 
big  attic,  she  would  feel  it  was  her  own  room  in  a  way 
that  the  best  spare  bedroom  could  never  be.  This  point 
of  etiquette  about  the  best  spare  bedroom,  though  there 
was  practically  never  a  guest  in  the  house  (during  the 
last  year  a  cousin  of  the  aunts  had  spent  a  night  there, 
because  she  missed  a  train),  appealed  to  them,  though 
Lucia's  preference  seemed  to  them  unusual,  and  they 
had  certain  vague  qualms  as  to  whether  it  was  proper 
for  a  girl  to  be  cut  off  like  this.  A  closer  examination 
of  these  scruples  showed  them  to  be  somewhat  phantas- 
mal, since  the  impropriety  of  Lucia's  sleeping  there, 
with  the  cook  and  the  housemaid  immediately  below, 
and  themselves  on  the  floor  below  that,  could  not  ex- 
actly be  defined  when  the  girl  pressed  for  a  definition. 

47 


48  THE    CLIMBER 

Aunt  Elizabeth  began  several  sentences  with  —  ' '  But 

what  would  you  do  if "  but  her  imagination  was 

not  equal  to  framing  a  contingency  which  should  em- 
body her  objections. 

Lucia's  real  reason  for  preferring  the  attic  was  sim- 
ple enough.  She  wanted  first  of  all  a  greater  sense  of 
privacy  than  could  be  obtained  on  the  first  floor,  and 
she  felt  also  she  would  be  stifled  in  the  heavy  solem- 
nities of  the  best  bedroom.  She  had  air  and  light  up- 
stairs, and  a  small  sum  of  money  which  was  left  over 
after  the  re-investment  of  her  mother's  property,  suf- 
ficed to  furnish  it  according  to  her  tastes.  The  furni- 
ture was  simple  enough,  but  it  was  characteristically 
vivid.  The  walls  were  white;  there  was  a  crimson 
drugget  on  the  floor,  a  plain  apple-green  writing-table 
in  the  window,  two  big  basket  chairs  with  green  cush- 
ions, and  a  red-lacquer  wardrobe.  These  things,  with 
the  barest  apparatus  for  sleeping  and  dressing,  left 
the  room  fairly  empty;  it  was  light,  full  of  colour,  airy, 
and  private. 

It  was  here  that  she  went  to-night  with  a  certain 
eagerness  to  be  alone  at  the  unusual  hour  of  half-past 
ten.  The  process  of  self-realization  which  she  had 
spoken  of  to  Maud  the  night  before  was  like  ferment- 
ing wine  in  her  brain,  and  she  and  this  stranger,  who 
was  yet  herself,  were  going  to  be  alone  together  and 
make  their  plans.  She  slipped  off  her  dress,  and  let 
her  hair  make  cataracts  down  her  back,  and  then,  set- 
ting the  window  looking  over  the  garden  wide  open, 
she  lit  all  the  candles  she  had  in  the  room.  That  was 
purely  instinctive ;  she  scarcely  knew  she  was  doing  it, 
conscious  only  that  she  wanted  air  and  light.  Then, 
still  instinctively  expressing  herself,  she  put  on  a 


THE    CLIMBER  49 

Japanese  kimono  of  old  gold  and  scarlet  and  threw 
open  the  door  to  this  engrossing  stranger,  herself, 
whom  she  was  beginning  to  know.  Then  suddenly  her 
own  image  in  the  glass,  brilliant,  vivid,  gloriously 
youthful,  struck  her,  and,  candle  in  hand,  she  went 
close  up  to  it,  looking  at  her  face  slightly  flushed,  the 
liquid  fire  of  her  eyes,  the  golden  fire  of  her  hair.  It 
was  no  motive  of  vanity  that  dictated  this,  for  vanity, 
even  the  most  deep-seated,  is  but  a  shallow  emotion; 
it  was  the  most  intense  and  eager  interest  in  herself. 
She  looked  long  and  gravely,  enthralled  at  what  she 
saw  just  because  it  was  herself.  Then  she  said  out 
loud: 

"  Yes,  that's  me." 

She  wanted,  she  wanted  passionately.  She  wanted 
to  have  everything — wealth,  position,  rank,  to  have  the 
world  at  her  feet,  to  be  gazed  at,  admired,  envied,  and 
had  Mephistopheles,  or  his  feminine  counterpart,  come 
in  at  the  moment,  the  bargain  would  have  been  struck 
the  moment  he  proposed  it.  As  for  love,  she  was  quite 
willing  to  take  it;  more  than  that,  she  even  wanted  to 
be  loved  with  the  same  passionateness  that  she  wanted 
everything  else ;  but  as  for  f eeling  it,  or  for  giving  it, 
she  was  truly  not  aware  whether  it  was  in  her  power 
to  do  any  such  thing.  Marriage,  of  course,  was  neces- 
sary for  the  accomplishment  of  her  desire,  and  no 
doubt  that  she  should  have  children  would  add  to  the 
fulfilment  of  her  avarice,  but  she  wanted  neither  hus- 
band nor  babies  in  themselves.  They,  too,  like  danc- 
ing and  diamonds,  were  to  be  part  of  her  parure,  not 
part  of  herself. 

Nor  was  her  scheme  to  lack  its  intellectual  triumphs. 
She  must  have  wit,  so  that  the  world  hung  on  her 


50  THE    CLIMBER 

words  as  it  must  hang  upon  her  beauty,  and  she  must 
make  la  pluie  et  le  beau  temps  in  the  world  of  art,  by 
her  approval  or  censure,  just  as  she  must  set  the 
fashions  by  her  gowns.  It  would  be  musicians  whom 
she  would  ask  to  her  opera-box,  who  came  with  her  for 
love  of  music,  just  as  in  the  theatre  she  would  be  the 
centre  of  those  of  critical  and  dramatic  acumen.  In 
the  intoxication  of  ambition  that  was  on  her  at  the  mo- 
ment she  felt  herself  despising  the  ordinary  women  of 
the  world,  to  whom  a  quantity  of  smart  gowns  worn 
at  a  quantity  of  smart  parties  is  sufficient  to  make  a 
success  of  a  season,  those  who  went  from  party  to 
party  with  nothing  in  their  heads  but  what  they  were 
going  to  do  next.  She  would  be  kind,  too,  philan- 
thropic, ready  to  place  herself  and  her  time  at  the  serv- 
ice of  suffering,  since  it  was  undeniably  in  the  fashion 
to  work  hard  and  to  be  charitable.  Besides,  she  felt 
that  if  she  really  had  all  she  wanted,  she  would  be  kind 
in  nature,  not  only  for  show.  Happiness,  the  gratifica- 
tion of  ambition,  the  gaining  what  one  wants,  she  was 
convinced,  was  a  great  softener  of  the  heart. 

Then  for  a  moment  a  shadow  fell  across  the  pro- 
jected path— what  afterwards?  What  when  she  had 
got  all  she  desired,  when  age  began  to  tarnish  the  gold 
of  her  youth,  when  the  leanness  of  accomplished  ambi- 
tions began  to  wrinkle  her  soul?  But  the  doubt  was 
no  more  than  the  shade  cast  by  a  passing  cloud  on  a 
day  of  windy  spring,  and  it  had  gone  almost  before 
she  knew  it  was  there.  It  would  be  early  enough  to 
think  of  that  at  the  end  of  fifty  years;  it  was  sheer 
waste  of  time  to  consider  it  now.  Besides,  she  felt  she 
would  pay  any  price  for  what  she  meant  to  have,  pro- 


THE    CLIMBER  51 

vided  only  the  bill  was  sent  in  afterwards,  presented 
to  her  at  the  end  of  life,  as  the  waiter  brings  the  ac- 
count at  the  end  of  dinner.  She  would  have  dined,  that 
was  all  that  mattered,  and  in  whatever  form  the  waiter 
came,  and  whatever  astounding  indebtedness  he 
brought  with  him,  it  could  noi  but  be  cheap.  Only  let 
her  have  everything,  and  she  would  pay  whatever  was 
demanded. 

But  for  a  moment  more  the  shadow  gave  her  pause, 
and  she  thought  more  closely  to  see  whether  in  her 
heart  of  hearts  she  reserved  anything,  or  whether,  like 
Faust,  she  would  sign  her  very  self  away.  But  she 
found  nothing  which  really  seemed  to  her  to  weigh  as 
heavily  as  what  she  wanted,  her  success,  her  happiness. 
She  was  not  cruel,  yet  if  it  was  necessary  that  the  un- 
happiness  of  others  was  the  coin  by  which  she  pur- 
chased her  own,  she  would  pay  it.  She  would  not  like 
sacrificing  others — she  would  hate  it — but  if  someone 
had  to  suffer  to  enable  her  to  enjoy,  she  knew  that  she 
would  not  forego  her  chance.  If  Aunt  Catherine  or 
Aunt  Elizabeth,  for  instance,  had,  by  some  mysterious 
bargain,  to  pay  for  her  pleasures  .  .  .  well,  they  had 
had  their  lives,  they  had  had  their  chances  too,  at  the 
best  there  were  but  a  few  grey  years  remaining  for 
them;  and  they  were  not  very  happy,  probably,  even 
as  it  was.  ...  Or  if,  in  the  same  way,  her  own  gain, 
had  to  be  anybody  else's  loss,  she  knew  really  what  her 
choice  would  be,  even  if  the  loss  was  to  one  she  really 
was  devoted  to — even  if  it  were  Maud's  loss,  for  in- 
stance? Then  she  swept  these  thoughts  away;  they 
were  but  figments  of  imagination.  Yet,  in  spite  of  that, 
she  knew  that  morally,  potentially,  she  had  chosen. 
Her  thoughts,  it  may  be,  had  been  talking  nonsense  to 


52  THE    CLIMBER 

her :  asking  her  child-questions — * '  What  would  you 
do  if "  and  then  putting  some  outrageous  contin- 
gency before  her ;  but  for  the  moment,  at  any  rate,  she 
had  taken  these  child-questions  seriously,  and  an- 
swered them  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 

A  light  wind  blew  in  from  the  garden  bearing  with 
it  the  warm  scent  of  night-smelling  flowers  from  some 
garden  that  had  prospered  better  than  that  of  Fair- 
view,  and  she  paused  by  the  window  looking  out  on  to 
the  darkness.  At  first,  her  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  il- 
lumination in  her  room  and  its  white  reflecting  walls, 
could  see  nothing  but  the  large  empty  darkness;  but 
soon  forms  of  things  defined  themselves  and  took  shape 
and  a  little  colour.  Above  in  the  velvet  vault  the  stars 
burned  hot  and  close  in  the  warm  air,  below  the  long 
railway  embankment  made  a  sharp  black  line  across 
the  sky.  On  each  side  stretched  parallel  brick  walls; 
enclosing  strips  of  garden  belonging  to  neighbouring 
houses,  all  just  alike,  all  narrow  and  confined.  But  of 
them  all  the  one  immediately  below  seemed  to  her  most 
intolerably  tedious.  She  knew  every  inch  of  it,  and 
it  was  all  dull  and  unlovely.  The  flower-bed  under  the 
wall  was  black,  the  lawn  was  black,  but  across  it  in  a 
curve  stretched  the  white  line  at  the  top  of  the  tennis 
net,  and  the  post  showed  black  across  the  gray  of  the 
gravel  walk.  From  the  house  itself  there  shone  a  pale 
glimmer  of  light  from  Aunt  Elizabeth's  window,  and 
even  as  she  looked  it  was  extinguished.  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth had  gone  to  bed.  And  in  the  morning  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth would  get  up,  and  do  her  worsted  work,  and  live 
over  again  the  triumph  over  the  Demon.  In  a  month's 
time  there  would  be  the  unparalleled  excitement  of  al- 
ternate Tuesdays,  and  then  they  would  go  to  Little- 


THE    CLIMBER  53 

stone.    And  in  a  few  years'  time  everybody  would  be 
dead. 

The  rattling  on  of  an  approaching  train,  getting 
rapidly  louder,  caught  her  ear,  and  next  moment  with 
a  shriek,  the  engine  belching  fire,  followed  by  its  train 
of  illuminated  carriages,  tore  past  along  the  embank- 
ment, swift  and  alive,  carrying  its  fortunate  freight 
at  top  speed  by  the  sleepy  town.  That  was  the  contrast 
Lucia  wanted;  even  though  the  tennis  net  drooped  in 
the  garden,  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  gone  to  bed,  out 
in  the  world  there  was  life  and  movement  day  and 
night. 

Though  it  was  late  before  she  went  to  bed,  she  woke 
next  morning  very  early,  and  found  that  her  mind  flew 
back  like  an  uncoiled  spring  to  the  train  of  thought  and 
that  study  of  herself  which  had  so  occupied  her  the 
night  before.  Already,  by  that  strange  assimilative 
process  of  the  mind  which  goes  on  in  sleep,  that  which 
had  been  almost  revelation  to  her  the  night  before  was 
familiar  now,  and  part  of  her,  and  those  flashes  of  con- 
sciousness of  herself  and  her  own  nature  had  passed 
into  the  very  tissues  of  her  brain.  The  feverish  ex- 
citement of  her  discoveries  was  over,  and  in  the  cool 
pearliness  of  dawn  she  thought  of  it  all  quietly,  and 
turned  her  mind  to  the  practical  considerations  which 
it  suggested.  And  the  first  practical  consideration  was 
this: 

Opportunities,  occasions  of  being  able  to  realize 
one 's  desires,  she  saw,  certainly  came  from  without,  but 
she  had  hitherto  neglected  to  be  at  home,  so  to  speak, 
to  opportunities.  Narrow  and  tedious  as  she  felt  her 
life  here  to  be,  she  had  herself  assisted  in  adding  to 


54  THE    CLIMBEE 

the  tediousness  at  which  she  so  rebelled,  by  making 
the  worst  of  it,  not  only  in  mental  attitude,  but  in  her 
practical  aloofness  from  such  humdrum  life  as  there 
was.  She  must  change  all  that,  for  she,  whose  deter- 
mination now  was  to  get  from  life  all  that  life  had  to 
offer,  had  up  till  now  been  doing  the  very  opposite 
down  in  Brixham,  and,  having  assumed  that  it  offered 
nothing  at  all,  it  was  not  surprising  that  she  found 
nothing  there.  She  had  not  troubled  to  look  and  search 
in  this  room,  simply  because  she  had  believed  it  to  be 
quite  dark.  She  had  been  so  occupied  in  wondering 
at  the  futilities  in  which  Aunt  Elizabeth's  days  were 
passed  that  her  own  had  been  just  as  futile.-  That  was 
bad  practice  for  one  who  was  going  to  press  the  last 
ounce  of  pleasure  out  of  life.  Besides — though  it  ap- 
peared wildly  improbable — little  opportunities  which 
might  lead  to  the  big  opportunities  might  be  floating 
about  even  here ;  she  must  be  on  the  look-out  for  every- 
thing, snatch  everything — no,  that  was  not  the  word, 
put  out  her  hand  to  everything  very  gently  and  then 
catch  hold  of  it  very  tight. 

Lucia  smiled  to  herself  as  she  made  this  verbal  al- 
teration in  her  thought,  and  got  out  of  bed,  for  she 
was  too  wide-awake  to  care  to  go  through  drowsy  proc- 
esses to  make  her  sleepy  again,  and  tip-toed  downstairs 
to  her  bath,  putting  her  sponge  at  the  bottom  below 
the  tap,  so  that  the  noise  of  the  water  splashing  in 
should  not  rouse  the  aunts.  Yet  it  was  not  quite  kind- 
ness or  the  desire  not  to  break  their  rest  that  dictated 
the  consideration  of  this;  she  wanted  the  sense  that 
nobody  else  was  awake. 

She  dressed  quickly  and  went  out,  feeling  a  thrill 
of  delight  in  the  fact  of  being  alone  and  awake  in  this 


THE    CLIMBER  55 

translucent  dawn,  while,  the  sleepy  town  still  dozed 
abed,  and  her  quickened  perception  of  herself  seemed 
to  have  vivified  her  all  through,  so  that  it  was  with  an 
unsealed  and  kindled  eye  that  she  saw  the  familiar 
places  at  which  she  had  looked  a  hundred  times  with- 
out seeing  them.  She  turned  her  back  on  the  town, 
and  struck  upward  across  a  couple  of  fields  that  led 
to  the  great  hump  of  down  that  overlooked  the  city. 
Here  in  the  meadows  the  grass  was  still  covered  with 
the  seed-pearls  of  the  dew,  though  the  sun  was  risen, 
and  as  she  walked  there  was  thrown  round  the  shadow 
of  her  head  a  pale  iridescence  that  accompanied  her  as 
she  moved.  Buttercups  spread  their  gold  on  the  green 
velvet  of  the  fields,  and  in  the  hedges  the  leaves  of  the 
hawthorn  were  varnished  with  the  dew,  and  cascades 
of  starry  blossom,  vigorous  and  refreshed  by  the 
night,  were  spilled  and  sprayed  over  them.  Then  still 
mounting,  she  came  to  the  down,  all  carpeted  with 
thyme  and  cushions  of  rockrose,  and  stiff  and  springy 
to  the  feet  with  its  short  close-growing  grasses.  Hare- 
bells trembled  on  wire-like  stalks,  and  over  all  had 
been  thrown  the  magic  shuttle  of  the  gossamer  webs. 
Then  turning  round,  Lucia  looked  over  the  hollow  that 
held  the  town  itself.  Night-mists  and  the  lighting  of 
early  fires  half  shrouded  it  in  skeins  of  bluish  vapour, 
but  the  taller  houses  and  spires  pricked  through  this 
covering  and  stood  gilded  with  the  early  sunlight. 
Even  as  she  looked  the  veils  of  vapour  got  gradually 
more  and  more  suffused  with  the  Eastern  fire  until 
they  were  withdrawn,  and  vanished  in  the  glory  of  the 
mounting  sun. 

The  same  awakened  perceptions  which  had  shown 
her  herself  made  her  more  alert  to  see  these  things. 


56  THE    CLIMBER 

During  this  last  year  her  mind  had  dozed,  partly  from 
laziness,  partly  from  the  conviction  that  everything 
here  was  grey  and  unprofitable,  partly,  perhaps,  her 
spirit  had  been  like  one  enjoying  the  last  minutes  of 
sleep  and  knowing,  though  instinctively  and  uncon- 
sciously, that  the  hour  of  awakening  is  close  at  hand. 
Alert  and  alive  now  she  certainly  was,  and  she  judged 
and  condemned  herself  for  this  somnolent  year.  To 
make  herself  complete,  to  be  ready  for  the  fulfilment  of 
her  desires,  she  saw  now  that  this  torpor  would  never 
do.  She  had  dropped  all  her  Girton  studies,  she  had 
let  herself  grow  rusty  in  languages,  she  had  scarcely 
touched  the  piano  in  all  these  months.  And  worse  than 
all,  she  had  largely  lost  interest  in  people;  she  had 
labelled  Brixham  as  a  town  full  of  "  Empties  "  with- 
out really  ever  troubling  to  look  inside  it  and  see. 
Very  likely  she  was  right,  very  likely  they  had  all 
turned  into  cabbages  in  this  Sleepy  Hollow,  but  what 
she  had  not  reckoned  with  was  the  risk  of  turning  into 
a  cabbage  too. 

Lucia  had,  in  addition  to  the  wonderful  charm  and 
beauty  of  bodily  presence,  a  mental  gift  which  is  second 
to  none  in  the  securing  of  a  person's  aims;  she  knew 
her  own  mind  with  precision,  and  had  a  quiet  obstinacy 
that  wore  down  opposition  and  obstacles  by  its  un- 
wearying pertinacity.  It  was  not  a  quality  that  she 
wore  on  her  sleeve  for  all  the  world  to  see;  on  the 
contrary,  she  concealed  it,  showing  on  the  surface  only 
her  vivid  vitality,  her  exuberance  of  spirit  which  had 
so  charmed  Maud,  and  indeed  charmed  any  to  whom 
she  chose  to  exhibit  it.  But  the  unwearying  obstinacy 
was  there  below  it,  never  asserting  itself,  never  being 
violent,  but  being  always  quite  hard  and  firm,  like  the 


THE    CLIMBER  57 

stone  of  some  soft  plum  with  smooth  bloom  on  its  skin 
and  golden  ripeness  within.  It  was  only  when  you  bit 
to  the  centre,  so  to  speak,  that  you  found  it  at  all.  And 
this  morning,  standing  hatless  on  the  dewy  down,  in 
the  dawn  of  the  day  and  the  dawn  of  her  womanhood, 
she  bit  deep  into  herself,  and  found  it  there,  hard  and 
cool. 

She  brought  back  with  her  long  sprays  of  the  flower- 
ing hawthorn,  and,  before  the  aunts  came  down,  had 
put  them  in  water  in  the  two  large  cut-glass  vases  that 
stood  in  the  hall,  and  would  certainly  have  been  de- 
scribed by  an  auctioneer  as  ' '  very  handsome. ' '  This, 
however,  was  not  a  .very  happy  inspiration,  for  Aunt 
Elizabeth  was  instantly  seized  with  such  a  violent  ac- 
cess of  hay-fever  that  the  banisters  of  the  stairs  as  she 
came  down  shook  under  the  tempest  of  her  sneezing, 
and  Lucia,  guessing  the  cause,  took  the  handsome  vases 
out  into  the  garden,  and  came  back  with  smelling  salts 
and  apologies.  Aunt  Elizabeth,  however,  was  not  suffi- 
ciently herself  to  read  prayers,  which  Cathie  did  in- 
stead, declaiming  a  particularly  unchristian  psalm 
which  called  down  many  curses  on  her  enemies,  in  her 
impressive  voice,  while  Elizabeth  by  degrees  grew 
quieter.  By  breakfast  time  she  was  so  far  recovered 
as  to  be  able  to  say  what  she  thought  in  choked  and 
quavering  utterance. 

"  It  isn't  much  that  you  have  to  remember,  Lucia," 
she  said,  "  nor  are  there  many  duties  that  fall  upon 
your  shoulders.  But  if  you  could  manage  to  recollect 
that  hawthorn  is  poison  to  me,  I  should  be  grateful. 
And  unless  our  eggs  are  going  to  be  like  eggs  in 
salad,  you  might  be  so  kind  as  to  put  the  spirit-lamp 
out." 


58  THE    CLIMBER 

She  unfolded  the  Daily  Telegraph. 

"  And  I  felt  so  happy  and  well  this  morning,"  she 
added,  "  what  with  getting  that  shade  of  wool,  and 
Demon  coming  out  last  night.  But  no  one  considers 
me,  and  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  have  got  used  to  it  by  this 
time." 

A  sudden  resolve  to  shake  off  her  reticence  seized 
Aunt  Cathie.  She  was  sorry  for  Lucia,  and  tried  to 
express  it,  so  as  she  came  back  from  the  side-table 
with  the  probably-salad  eggs,  she  made  a  fierce  kind  of 
dab  at  her,  the  intention  being  to  lay  a  sympathetic 
hand  on  her  arm.  Two  of  the  eggs  were  broken  on  the 
floor,  and  they  were  not  of  the  necessary  consistency 
for  salad.  Aunt  Elizabeth  rose,  though  she  had  not 
begun  breakfast. 

"  I  will  go  and  lie  down,"  she  said.  "  Catherine, 
please  order  what  you  like  for  lunch,  if  you  are  not  too 
busy  to  see  Mrs.  Inglis.  And  the  carpet  was  laid  down 
only  last  winter. ' ' 

Lucia  meantime  had  been  making  matters  worse  on 
the  floor. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Elizabeth,  I  am  so  sorry!  "  she  said, 
"  but  Aunt  Cath— but  something  jogged  my  arm.  It 
was  most  careless  of  me,  and  please  let  me  have  the 
carpet  cleaned  with  my  money. ' ' 

Providence  had  bestowed  the  gift  of  irony  on  Aunt 
Elizabeth. 

* '  It  would  be  a  new  use  for  the  coin  of  the  realm  to 
clean  the  carpet  with  it,"  she  said  brokenly.  "  If  it 
is  not  too  much,  Lucia,  might  I  ask  you  not  to  stamp 
above  my  head  as  you  did  all  last  night,  keeping  me 
awake?  Thank  you,  dear;  I  shall  try  to  get  a  little 
rest." 


THE   CLIMBER  59 

Lucia  and  Aunt  Cathie  were  left  alone,  and  when 
the  door  had  closed  the  latter  spoke. 

"  Eat  the  other  egg,  Lucia,"  she  observed,  "  and 
don't  mind  Elizabeth.  My  belief  is  she  slept  like  a 
top.  Heard  her  snoring  myself.  And  she  doesn't 
mean  anything;  cheer  up!  It  was  my  fault,  too. 
Stupid  old  goose !  Not  you,  me!" 

Aunt  Catherine's  teeth  were  troublesome,  and  she 
dipped  her  toast  in  her  tea. 

' '  Poor  Elizabeth !  ' '  she  added.  ' '  You  never  can 
tell.  Besides,  egg  comes  out.  I've  spilled  egg  often, 
and  not  a  trace  of  it.  What  happens  to  napkins,  eh?  ' 

And  all  the  time  the  poor  soul  was  yearning  to  say 
tender,  womanly  things.  But  she  did  not  know  how. 
That  knowledge  was  one  that  had  not  come  to  her 
with  years,  but  the  longing  for  it  had  not  lessened  with 
the  increase  of  them. 

But  Lucia  this  morning  perceived  something  new 
about  Aunt  Cathie.  She  saw,  and  that  for  the  first 
time,  that  Aunt  Cathie  wanted  to  say  things,  whereas 
hitherto  she  had  only  known  that  she  did  not  do  so. 
That  dab  on  her  arm  which  had  occasioned  the  catas- 
trophe with  the  eggs  she  suddenly  perceived  had  been 
an  effort,  however  unsuccessful,  to  say  something,  or 
if  not  to  say,  to  express  a  feeling.  She  cracked  the  re- 
maining egg,  then  stopped. 

"  Aunt  Cathie,  do  eat  this,'*  she  said.  "  I  don't 
want  it  a  bit.  Or  I  could  ring  the  bell  and  get  an- 
other." 

* '  Better  not, ' '  said  Aunt  Cathie.  '  *  Elizabeth  would 
ring  to  find  out  what  you  had  rung  for.  Eat  it  up. 
You've  been  for  a  walk,  I  suppose,  else  where  did  you 
get  that  unfortunate  hawthorn?  I  haven't." 


60  THE   CLIM'BER 

"  Yes.    I  am  rather  hungry,"  said  Lucia. 

"  Well,  eat,  then.    Growing  girl." 

Really,  Aunt  Catherine  was  so  brusque  that  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  conduct  conversation.  But  Lucia 
felt  both  expansive  and  interested  this  morning. 

'*  Tell  me,  Aunt  Cathie,"  she  said,  "  what  did  you 
want  to  say  when  you  jogged  my  arm?  You  can  say 
it  aloud  now,  you  see,  as  Aunt  Elizabeth  has  gone.  At 
least,  I  suppose  that  it  was  because  she  was  here  that 
you  didn't  say  it,  but  did  it  instead." 

That  was  an  unfortunate  phrase;  it  stung,  though 
Lucia  did  not  mean  it  to,  instead  of  caressing,  and 
Aunt  Cathie's  shy,  timorous  tentacles  withdrew  in- 
stead of  advancing. 

"  Don't  know  what  we  are  talking  about,"  she  said. 
"  Pass  me  the  paper,  Lucia.  Nothing  ever  happens, 
though,  does  it  ?  ' 

But  though  Aunt  Cathie  was  easily  scared  off  the 
slightest  advance  towards  confidence,  for  the  very  rea- 
son that  she  so  nervously  yearned  to  show  herself  to 
Lucia,  the  girl  found  not  the  slightest  difficulty  in  giv- 
ing her  aunt  certain  of  the  conclusions  of  her  morning 
walk. 

"  I  had  a  good  long  think  this  morning,  Aunt 
Cathie,"  she  said,  "  and  I  should  like  to  tell  you  about 
it.  I  found  out  that  I  was  an  idle,  lazy  little  brute, 
and  that  I  had  been  wasting  my  time  most  abominably 
during  this  last  year.  Now  I'm  going  to  behave 
differently.  I  suppose  you  don't  talk  French,  do 
you?  " 

Aunt  Cathie  dropped  her  paper  at  this  very  surpris- 
ing question. 

"  Bless  me,  no!    Haven't  looked  at  a  French  book 


THE   CLIMBER  61 

since  I  was  a  girl,"  she  said.  "  It's  hard  enough  to 
say  what  you  want  in  English,  without  bothering  about 
other  tongues.  Besides,  what  good  could  French  be  to 
me?  We  had  a  French  governess  once  at  home,  but 
she  was  sent  away  for  picking  out  the  marks  from 
your  grandmamma's  linen  and  putting  in  her  own. 
Your  grandmamma  often  said  she  wouldn't  wonder  if 
she  was  a  spy. ' ' 

These  almost  international  complications  had  led 
Aunt  Cathie  away  from  the  original  question,  and  she 
returned  abruptly. 

"  About  French?  "  she  asked. 

1 1  Oh,  it  was  only  that  French  was  one  of  the  things 
I  was  going  to  work  at,"  said  Lucia,  "  and  I  thought, 
if  you  knew  French,  we  might  make  a  vow  only  to  talk 
French  to  each  other  three  days  a  week  or  something. 
But  if  you  don't  know  it,  conversation  would  be 
limited. ' ' 

There  was  no  gainsaying  this,  but  Aunt  Cathie 
wanted  to  learn  now. 

"  And  what  else?  "  she  asked.  "  Sketching,  now? 
I  used  to  sketch.  We  might  go  sketching.  Your  Aunt 
Elizabeth  and  I  both  belonged  to  a  sketching  club,  and 
learned  touches  for  trees." 

"  Touches  for  trees?  "  asked  Lucia. 

"  Yes,  different-shaped  pencil  marks  indicating  the 
foliage  of  various  trees.  Elizabeth  learned  seven 
touches,  but  I  never  mastered  more  than  five.  So  I 
could  never  draw  plane-trees,  of  which  there  were  a 
quantity  at  home.  And  singing,  too — had  you  thought 
about  singing  ?  I  might  help  you  there.  I  had  what  is 
called  a  veiled  contralto." 

Aunt  Cathie  was  getting  less  brusque  and  more  ac- 


62  THE   CLIMBER 

cessible  every  moment,  but,  becoming  suddenly  con- 
scious of  it  herself,  she  withdrew  altogether.  She  must 
not  seem  to  be  forcing  herself  on  Lucia.  But  she  made 
one  more  advance  before  she  retired. 

"  I'll  get  the  piano  tuned,"  she  said.  "  Let  me 
glance  through  the  paper.  Hum!  Death  of  Lord 
Brayton.  Serve  him  right.  Drink  and  smoke." 

"  Did  he  die  young?  "  asked  Lucia.  "  And  who  was 
he?" 

"  Seems  to  have  been  eighty-three.  Lived  at  Bray- 
ton,  three  miles  away.  Immense  property  for  some- 
body. Hadn't  got  children." 

Aunt  Cathie  was  one  of  those  newspaper  readers 
who  must  be  numerous  considering  the  care  and  plenti- 
fulness  with  which  they  are  catered  for,  who  are  in- 
tensely interested  in  the  doings  of  people  they  have 
never  seen,  and  indeed  never  heard  of  except  through 
the  medium  of  the  daily  press.  Her  trenchant  com- 
ment on  Lord  Brayton 's  death,  indeed,  was  founded  on 
more  than  this,  for  she  had  once  seen  his  lordship 
standing  in  the  window  of  the  County  Club  with  a  glass 
of  what  was  probably  brandy  and  soda  in  one  hand, 
and  an  unmistakable  cigar  in  the  other.  But  she  was 
equally  interested  in  mere  names,  and  before  leaving 
the  table  read  through  various  lists  of  guests  at  differ- 
ent dinner-parties  in  town,  and  observed  that  there  was 
a  great  deal  going  on.  But  with  Elizabeth  lying  down 
upstairs,  the  duty  of  ordering  dinner  and  making  the 
daily  inspection  of  the  larder  fell  upon  her,  and  since 
this  had  to  be  done  immediately  after  breakfast,  be- 
fore the  tradesmen  called,  she  had  little  time  to  spare 
for  the  paper.  Indeed  she  did  but  glance  at  the  Court 
Circular. 


THE   CLIMBER  63 

"  Edgar  Comber,"  she  observed  as  she  got  up. 
"  Never  heard  of  him." 

"  What  about  him?  "  asked  Lucia  quietly. 

"  Succeeds  Lord  Brayton.  Second  cousin  twice  re- 
moved. Elizabeth  and  I  used  to  go  to  the  garden- 
parties  at  Brayton,  when  Lady  Brayton  was  alive. 
Sweet  woman.  Gored  by  a  mad  bull." 

Lucia  sat  for  a  minute  longer  after  Aunt  Cathie 
had  announced  the  tragic  end  of  the  late  Lady  Bray- 
ton with  such  dramatic  suddenness ;  but  it  was  not  that 
which  occupied  her  mind,  nor  yet  the  question  of 
French,  or  of  Aunt  Cathie 's  veiled  contralto.  How  odd 
it  was  that  this  name  should  again  be  brought  before 
her!  Since  Maud  had  spoken  of  him  two  days  ago, 
in  that  intimate  midnight  talk,  she  had  often  thought 
of  him,  had  recalled  his  appearance,  his  manner,  his 
conversation  with  growing  distinctness.  And  again 
now,  as  if  a  light  had  suddenly  been  turned  up,  his 
image  became  more  vivid.  Really  Maud  had  chosen 
very  well,  an  immense  property,  so  Aunt  Cathie  had 
said,  and  a  peerage,  both  exceedingly  good  things  in 
themselves,  and  quite  admirably  suited  the  one  to  the 
other.  She  wondered  if  Maud  had  known  all  along  that 
he  would  be  possessed  of  such  desirable  adjuncts.  It 
was  almost  impossible  that  she  should  not :  in  London 
everybody  knew  everything  about  other  people.  Maud 
would  be  wealthy  too :.  she  was  the  only  child  of  very 
rich  parents,  and — yes,  Lucia  was  delighted  that  so 
fair  a  prospect  opened  for  her  friend.  True,  there  was 
not  the  slightest  reason,  so  far  as  she  knew,  to  sup- 
pose that  this  fortunate  young  man  was  in  the  least 
degree  tenderly  disposed  toward  this  attractive  young 
woman,  but  Maud  was  just  the  sort  of  girl  whom  that 


64  THE   CLIMBER 

kind  of  man  liked.  He  talked  a  good  deal  about 
slightly  improving  subjects,  and  Maud  listened  so  well. 
She  listened  as  well  as  he  talked.  And  for  herself— 
well,  she  had  determined  to  polish  up  her  French,  and 
make  -the  most  of  herself  and  other  things.  But  what 
luck  other  people  had!  What  short  cuts  to  all  that 
made  life  pleasant! 

Aunt  Cathie  meantime  ordered  lunch  and  dinner, 
and  went  into  the  writing-room  to  finish  reading  her 
paper.  After  that  she  had  certainly  one,  and  probably 
two  letters  to  write,  so  that  she  would  barely  get 
through  her  work  before  it  was  necessary  to  go  into 
the  garden  at  twelve  and  walk  round  with  Johnson. 
This  was  done  every  day,  Aunt  Cathie  going  in  front, 
and  Johnson  tottering  behind  her,  to  take  her  orders. 
On  most  days,  it  was  true,  nothing  particular  passed, 
for  when  strawberries  were  clearly  green  on  Tuesday 
it  was  impossible  that  there  would  be  much  to  say 
about  them  on  Wednesday.  Except  to  remark  that 
they  were  green  still.  Also,  as  she  had  alluded  to  the 
bareness  of  the  famous  border  every  day  for  the  last 
fortnight,  and  he  had  said  that  it  was  the  cold  spring 
that  made  it  so  backward,  but  that  a  few  hot  days 
would  do  wonders  with  it,  nothing  much  remained  for 
discussion.  To-day,  however,  she  had  the  news  that 
the  lawn-tennis  court  would  not  be  used  for  tennis 
again  till  after  the  alternate  Tuesdays  in  July,  and 
there  would  be  the  question  of  sowing  a  little  grass 
seed  on  the  barest  places.  Johnson  was  sure  to  dis- 
courage this,  as  he  always  did  when  increased  exer- 
tions on  his  part  were  incident  to  any  scheme,  and 
would  probably  say  that  he  never  knew  of  any  good 


THE   GLIM  BEE  65 

coming  from  sowing  grass  at  the  end  of  May,  and  that 
the  price  of  it  this  year  spelled  ruin.  In  fact,  in  view 
of  the  disputation  likely  to  occur  this  morning,  it 
would  be  well  to  get  out  by  a  quarter  to  twelve,  since 
he  went  to  his  dinner  at  half  past,  and  Aunt  Cathie 
put  down  on  her  memorandum  slate  "  Johnson  11.45, " 
and  underlined  it. 

The  first  letter  was  to  the  ironmonger's  about  the 
mowing  machine.  It  had  never  cut  well,  and  the  blades 
had  been  resharpened  so  frequently  as  to  have  made 
it  economical  by  now  to  have  got  a  new  one  long  ago. 
This  letter  was  designed  to  have  a  sharp  edge  to  it, 
and  began,  "  My  gardener  informs  me  that.  ..." 

Aunt  Cathie's  attention  tended  to  wander  before  she 
got  any  further  than  this,  and  she  began,  in  association 
with  her  conversation  with  Lucia,  to  draw  "  touches  " 
on  a  half-sheet  of  paper,  to  see  if  she  remembered  them. 
The  pine-tree  touch  was  easy,  and  tremendously  ef- 
fective, but  she  got  confused  between  the  elm-tree 
touch  and  the  oak-tree  touch.  But  after  all  Lucia  had 
not  shown  any  great  interest  in  the  touches;  if  any- 
thing she  seemed  a  little  amused  at  the  idea. 

Aunt  Cathie  left  her  letter  and  got  up.  In  the  book- 
case opposite  her,  on  the  shelf  above  the  dictionary 
of  the  Bible  and  the  published  sermons  of  her  father, 
was  a  dingy  line  of  school  books,  with  their  backs  in 
the  condition  that  would  seem  to  show  that  they  had 
been  much  used  for  the  acquiring  of  knowledge,  and 
it  was  necessary  for  the  most  part  to  open  them  in 
order  to  find  out  what  they  were.  The  first  was  a  book 
of  physical  geography,  and  it  came  upon  her  with  the 
sense  of  a  long  forgotten  memory  that  the  Amazon 
was  four  thousand  miles  long,  while  the  Thames  (the 


66  THE   CLIMBER 

longest  river  in  the  British  Isles)  was  only  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty-five  miles.  Indeed,  the  physical  geog- 
raphy seemed  to  be  written  in  order  to  belittle  the 
English  nation.  Ah — London  was  the  largest  town  in 
the  world;  that  was  better. 

But  it  was  not  the  physical  geography  that  she  was 
looking  for,  nor  yet  the  Shorter  History  of  England, 
nor  the  Old  Testament  Maclear,  but  she  found  what  she 
sought  at  last,  a  thin  book  with  a  brown  cover,  that  re- 
minded her  of  the  French  governess  who  was  probably 
a  spy.  Definite  articles  le,  la,  les,  indefinite  article  un, 
une  (no  plural).  "  The  article  agrees  with  the  noun  in 
gender  and  number."  She  remembered  that  too,  now 
she  read  it  again.  Then  further  on,  "  The  verb  agrees 
with  the  subject  in  number  and  person  ";  further  on 
again  something  terribly  difficult  about  the  verbs  which 
conjugate  not  with  avoir  but  with  etre — e.g.,  "  II  est 
parti  pour  Paris."  She  had  got  certainly  as  far  as 
that,  for  she  remembered  it  now. 

Aunt  Cathie  sat  down  again,  with  a  little  flush  of  ex- 
citement, and  pushed  her  letter,  with  its  projected  acer- 
bity of  tone,  aside.  What  fun  it  would  be  to  work 
away  quietly  at  French  for  a  week  or  two,  polishing 
up  and  recollecting  what  no  doubt  would  come  back 
quite  easily  to  her,  and  then  at  the  end  astounding 
Lucia  by  the  profundity  of  her  knowledge.  It  must  be 
secretly  done,  though;  the  whole  point  of  it  would  be 
to  let  it  all  burst  upon  Lucia.  Really,  there  were  few 
days  (except  on  those  immediately  preceding  the  alter- 
nate Tuesdays)  in  which  she  could  not  snatch  half  an 
hour  or  so  from  her  other  occupations  and  devote  them 
to  French.  There  were  only  forty-two  lessons  in  Gasc : 
she  could  manage  one  a  day,  so  that  before  they  went 


THE   CLIMBER  67 

to  Littlestone  she  would  be  firmly  grounded  in  Gasc. 
Indeed,  on  many  days  she  might  be  able  to  manage 
more  than  half  an  hour :  to-day,  for  instance,  she  could 
quite  well  write  that  stiff  letter  to  the  ironmonger  after 
lunch,  when  she  usually  rested,  and  devote  all  the  time 
till  11.45  to  making  the  earlier  lessons  her  own  again. 
But  Gasc  appeared  to  be  in  smaller  and  less  legible 
print  than  it  used  to  be,  and  she  put  on  her  spectacles. 

"  Astonish  Lucia,'*  she  said  out  loud  in  her 
gruffest  voice,  before  plunging  into  these  forgotten 
intricacies. 

Upstairs  in  the  meantime  Elizabeth,  after  lying  down 
on  her  sofa  for  half  an  hour,  began  to  get  restless  and 
also  hungry,  since  she  had  had  no  breakfast.  Moreover 
she  had  not  read  the  paper,  and  she  was  also  burning 
with  practically  untamable  curiosity  to  see  whether 
Catherine  and  Lucia  had  tried  to  clear  up  that  fatal 
fricassee  of  egg  on  the  dining-room  carpet,  or  had  let 
it  dry,  to  be  taken  out  with  ammonia  afterward.  It 
would  be  just  like  them  to  scrape  it  off  while  still  wet, 
and  so  make  matters  really  serious.  Besting,  in  fact, 
soon  became  impossible,  and  she  stole  downstairs  with- 
out feeling  she  was  running  any  foolhardy  risk  of  de- 
tection, since  Catherine  would  certainly  have  gone  to 
the  writing-room  by  now,  and  Lucia  would  be  either  in 
her  own  room  or  out  in  the  garden.  Also  she  must  have 
bread  and  butter  at  the  very  least;  what  she  wanted 
was  an  egg  beaten  up  with  milk.  That  was  harder  of 
access:  bread  and  butter  and  milk  she  could  still  get 
from  the  dining-room.  The  tea,  however,  would  have 
been  standing  too  long. 

She  reached  the  dining-room  undetected,  and  flew  to 
the  egg-stain.  She  might  have  guessed  it;  it  was  al- 


68  THE   CLIMBER 

ready  driven  into  the  carpet  by  the  ill-directed  efforts 
of  a  zealous  hand.  The  energy  with  which  it  had  been 
done  seemed  to  point  to  Lucia ;  the  clumsiness  to  Cath- 
erine. But  bread  and  butter  were  still  there,  milk  was 
still  there,  and  with  these  she  could  stay  the  pangs  of 
her  hunger,  and  appear  at  lunch  in  the  martyr-guise  of 
one  who  had  not  breakfasted.  But  delay  was  danger- 
ous, and  she  left  the  room  again  with  a  cup  of  milk,  and 
a  sufficiency  of  bread  and  butter,  hoping  to  regain  the 
privacy  of  her  room  without  discovery. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  was  somewhat  near-sighted,  and  as 
she  crossed  the  hall  again  after  her  predatory  visit  to 
the  dining-room,  she  did  not  observe  that  at  this  par- 
ticular moment  Lucia  was  just  about  to  enter  through 
the  glass-door  leading  from  the  garden.  Indeed,  the 
poor  lady  was  otherwise  occupied,  for  some  malignant 
wandering  sprite  from  the  hawthorn  which  her  niece 
had  brought  in  from  her  morning's  walk  suddenly  as- 
sailed her  nose,  and  she  had  barely  time  to  set  down 
her  cup  of  milk  on  the  stairs  and  stifle  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief  before  she  was  again  shaken  by  those 
odious  convulsions,  and  as  for  the  piece  of  bread  and 
butter  she  had  taken  with  her,  it  flew  from  its  plate 
with  incredible  violence  and  pitched  (luckily  butter  up- 
wards) on  the  landing  six  stairs  higher.  Then  indeed 
she  glanced  hastily  at  the  garden-door  and  at  the  door 
of  the  writing-room,  and  she  still  seemed  to  be  unob- 
served. Lucia,  in  fact,  had  swiftly  retreated  into  the 
garden  again,  and  had  her  aunt  known,  was  biting  her 
handkerchief  in  an  agony  of  suppressed  laughter,  for 
the  parabola  described  by  the  bread  and  butter  was  of 
a  legitimately  humorous  character.  Also,  she  expected 
developments  at  lunch. 


THE   CLIMBER  69 

Elizabeth  felt  better  after  her  milk  and  bread  and 
butter,  but  still  very  much  ill-used.  She  had  had  two 
spasms  of  hay-fever,  egg  had  been  plastered  into  the 
dining-room  carpet,  and  Catherine  no  doubt  had  taken 
the  morning  paper  to  the  writing-room,  so  that  unless 
she  abandoned  her  role  of  fasting  invalid,  she  would 
be  without  employment  till  lunch,  since  she  had  no  book 
of  any  description  in  her  bedroom.  But  to  her  the  fact 
of  appearing  ill-used  was  more  vital  than  the  incon- 
venience of  feeling  so,  and  since  she  no  longer  felt  the 
inclination  to  close  her  eyes,  she  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow, discreetly  hidden  behind  the  fringe  of  her  blind, 
which  she  had  drawn  down.  Lucia  was  in  the  garden, 
walking  up  and  down  the  gravel  path,  and  reading 
some  book.  Before  long  Catherine  joined  her,  with  the 
paper,  which  Elizabeth  so  much  wanted,  in  her  hand. 
This  she  laid  down  on  a  garden  seat  and  the  two  held 
consultation  over  the  flower-beds.  There  was  a  breeze 
even  in  the  brick  confines  that  morning,  and  presently 
the  paper  began  to  stir  and  flutter.  Soon  a  leaf  of  it 
fell  on  to  the  lawn. 

This  was  too  much ;  she  rang  the  bell,  and  lay  down 
on  her  sofa. 

"  Jane,"  she  said  faintly,  when  it  was  answered, 
"  please  ask  Miss  Catherine  if  she  and  Miss  Lucia  have 
quite  finished  with  the  morning  paper.  If  they  have 
quite  finished — quite — ask  them  to  be  so  good  as  to  let 
you  bring  it  up  to  me." 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Jane,  "  and  shall  I  take  the  cup  and 
plate  away?  " 

Elizabeth  was  disconcerted  only  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  You  should  have  taken  them 
away  at  breakfast-time  when  you  did  the  room.  Do  not 


70       .  THECLIMBER 

tell  me  you  did  not  see  them;  you  would,  of  course, 
have  removed  them  if  you  had. ' ' 

That  was  adroit ;  it  was  really  adroit.  Also  it  made 
her  feel  as  if  Jane  had  indeed  forgotten  to  take  them 
away  earlier  in  the  morning  and  that  she  herself  had 
magnanimously  refrained  from  finding  fault. 

She  spent  a  pleasant  hour  over  the  paper,  and  by 
lunch-time  had  quite  got  to  feel  that  she  had  not  break- 
fasted at  all.  And  she  went  downstairs,  putting  one 
foot  and  then  the  other  on  to  each  step,  weak  and 
tried  it  is  true,  but  full  to  the  brim  of  Christian  for- 
bearance. 

There  was  hash  for  lunch,  and  the  weather  being 
very  warm,  the  hash,  like  the  worm  that  has  never  yet 
come  under  the  observation  of  naturalists,  had  turned 
a  little.  Elizabeth  put  it  from  her. 

"  No  doubt  one  is  best  without  meat  in  this  hot 
weather,"  she  said  faintly,  "  but  with  no  breakfast 
either — Catherine,  remind  me  to  speak  to  the  butcher. 
Lucia,  love,  you  would  be  wise  not  to  attempt  the  hash. 
There  should  be  some  cold  meat  in  the  house." 

"  There  isn't,"  said  Cathie.  "  Besides,  the  hash  is 
all  right.  Stuff  and  nonsense,  Elizabeth." 

'  *  You  are  luckier  in  the  selection  of  pieces  for  your- 
self than  in  pieces  for  me,"  observed  Elizabeth.  "  It 
is  no  matter  at  all.  But  not  having  eaten  to-day,  I 
looked  forward  to  my  lunch. ' ' 

Lucia  looked  up  at  Aunt  Cathie.  Her  face  wore  an 
expression  of  hard  indifference,  which  it  was  her  habit 
to  assume  involuntarily,  when  she  was  distressed. 
Aunt  Elizabeth's  martyred  sigh  completed  Lucia's 
resolution. 

"  But  I  saw  you  going  upstairs  about  eleven  with  a 


THECLIMBEE  71 

cup  of  milk  and  some  bread  and  butter,  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth," she  said. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  was  exposed  and  she  knew  it.  She 
became  wonderfully  dignified. 

"  I  make  no  complaints,"  she  said.  "  A  little  pud- 
ding, if  there  is  some,  and  a  little  bread  and  cheese  are 
amply  sufficient,  and  will  make  a  meal  of  which  many 
poor  people  would  be  glad." 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  was  a  very  hot  afternoon  in  the  beginning  of  July, 
rather  more  than  a  month  later,  and  Brayton  Hall 
in  general  appeared  to  be  having  a  very  suitable  siesta. 
All  along  the  south  front  of  the  house,  which  looked  to- 
wards the  garden,  the  blinds  were  down,  and  the  ve- 
randa, which  stretched  the  whole  length  of  the  ground- 
floor,  and  was  screened  from  the  glare  of  the  day  by 
Indian  curtains,  contained  two  very  lazy-looking  fig- 
ures. In  front  of  the  veranda  was  a  broad  walk  made 
of  old  paving-stones — an  adorable  material — from  be- 
tween the  joints  of  which  sprang  tight  little  cushions 
of  velvety  moss,  and  minute  spires  of  flowering  stone- 
crops.  Iceland  poppies  had  been  planted  there,  too,  but 
the  heat  of  the  last  few  weeks  had  been  too  much  for 
them,  and  they  looked  somewhat  pale  and  anaemic.  Be- 
yond, on  the  same  level,  was  an  assembly  of  small  for- 
mal flower-beds,  with  narrow  paved  paths  in  between, 
having  for  the  centre  of  their  system  a  grey  stone  foun- 
tain, where  a  somewhat  rococo  nymph,  very  suitably 
clad  for  this  hot  weather,  poured  water  from  a  high- 
held  jug  into  the  basin  below.  Beyond,  again,  ran  a 
low  balustrade  of  columns,  and  a  flight  of  half  a  dozen 
steps  opposite  the  fountain  led  down  to  the  lawn  and 
less  formal  part  of  the  garden.  Just  below  the  terrace 
the  ground  had  been  artificially  levelled  to  give  room 
for  a  couple  of  tennis  courts,  but  beyond  it  fell  away 
towards  a  lake,  an  acre  or  so  in  extent,  half  covered 
with  the  broad  leaves  and  golden  flowers  of  water-lilies, 

72 


THE   CLIMBER  73 

while  on  each  side  it  rose  upward  in  gentle  undulations, 
between  shrubs  and  big  flower-beds  that  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  allowed  to  do  as  they  chose  for  a  consid- 
erable period,  and  was  gradually  brought  to  a  green 
end  in  shrubberies.  The  whole  place,  as  could  be  seen 
at  the  most  cursory  glance,  had  been  laid  out  with  skill 
and  care,  but  not  less  evident  were  the  signs  of  sub- 
sequent neglect.  Below  the  lake  the  ground  again  de- 
clined rapidly,  and  in  the  V-shaped  gap  between  the 
down  on  each  side  could  be  seen,  reeling  in  the  heat 
mist,  the  houses  and  towers  of  Brixham. 

As  has  been  said,  an  air  of  suspended  animation 
hung  over  the  place,  but  soon  a  big  mowing-machine 
emerged  from  the  trees  at  the  far  end  of  the  lawn,  and 
the  renewed  sound  of  life  in  its  clicking  journeyings 
roused  one  of  the  figures  on  the  veranda,  and  he  rose 
and  put  down  his  coffee-cup  with  the  air  of  one  who 
means  to  make  a  move. 

"  Well,  of  course,  you  shall  do  as  you  choose, 
Charlie,"  he  said,  "  but  I  must  go  in  to  Brixham. 
They  have  had  three  days  of  the  cricket  week  al- 
ready, and  I  haven't  been,  and  there  are  calls  I  must 
return. ' ' 

Charlie  Lindsay  turned  a  little  in  his  long  chair,  and 
yawned  quite  fully  and  satisfactorily. 

"  Clearly,  then,  you  are  going  only  from  a  sense 
of  duty,"  he  said,  "  which  does  not  appeal  to  me.  I 
have  no  duties  toward  Brixham,  but  as  Brixham  is  your 
neighbour,  I  realize  that  you  have.  Go  forth,  then,  to 
conquer  and  be  conquered." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

4 '  You  will  make  a  triumphant  entry  on  to  the  cricket- 
ground  with  a  terrific  back-fire  from  your  motor  to  call 


74  THE   CLIMBER 

attention  to  you,  and  perhaps  a  tire  will  burst.  The 
assembled  mothers  and  daughters  of  Brixham  will  say 
to  each  other:  '  Lord  Brayton — how  young  and  how 
interesting,  and  wealthy!  '  That  will  be  your  con- 
quering. Then  you  will  turn  from  the  proud  beauties 
of  Brixham  and  observe,  sitting  rather  apart,  a  girl  of 
pensive  aspect,  dressed  in  blue,  with  an  earnest  expre's- 
sion  and  a  folio  copy  of  the  Divine  Comedy  in  her  hand, 
which  she  reads  instead  of  looking  at  the  cricket.  You 
will  ask  her  name,  and  find  she  is  the  daughter  of  the 
Dean.  So  you  will  be  conquered,  and  that  will  be  an- 
other divine  comedy.  I  can 't  go  on ;  it 's  too  hot. ' ' 

Lord  Brayton  seemed  neither  amused  nor  ruffled, 
and  stood  looking  out  over  the  garden.  He  was 
scarcely  twenty-five  years  of  age,  but  looked  at  least 
five  years  older,  and  a  guess  might  be  safely  hazarded 
that  in  mind  he  was  at  least  thirty,  so  mature,  though 
in  no  bald  or  obese  or  wrinkled  sense,  did  his  face  ap- 
pear. Good-looking  he  certainly  was,  but  in  a  rather 
formal  manner :  his  features  were  all  of  the  fine,  well- 
finished  type  which  is  usually  associated — as  it  was  in 
his  case — with  a  tall  well  set-up  frame.  But  he  looked 
as  if  he  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  about  most  things, 
and  would  probably  be  willing  to  give  you  the  result 
of  his  researches.  As  his  cousin  spoke  he  took  a  cigar- 
ette out  of  a  silver  box  that  stood  on  the  table,  but  next 
moment  put  it  back  without  lighting  it. 

"  I  think  I  had  one  with  my  coffee,"  he  remarked. 

Charlie  laughed. 

"  There  we  are  again  at  what  we  were  talking  of 
last  night,"  he  said.  "  What  does  it  matter  if  you 
smoke  two  cigarettes?  " 

"  It  matters  in  that  I  should  have  done  what  I  did 


THE   CLIMBEE  75 

not  intend  to  do.  I  believe  it  matters  almost  less 
whether  what  you  intend  to  do  is  a  good  thing  or  an  in- 
different one  than  not  to  do  it  when  you  have  intended 
it.  The  latter  is  a  failure  in  character." 

Charlie  Lindsay  sat  up  in  his  chair  and  crossed  one 
leg  over  the  other.  His  quick,  excitable  voice,  that 
jumped  about  from  note  to  note,  might  have  led  the 
hearer  to  expect  that  alert  and  youthful  face,  pleasant 
and  attractive  to  look  at,  and  vivid  but  notably  un- 
stable. His  blue  eyes  looked  quickly  here  and  there, 
never  dwelling  long  in  one  place,  and  his  hands  had 
movements  as  restless  as  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  it  would  be  a  failure  in  character,"  he  said, 
"  if  I  ever  did  what  I  intended.  The  key  of  my  char- 
acter is  to  do  something  quite  different  to  what  I 
meant.  You  get  most  fun  that  way.  I  mean,  for  in- 
stance— chuck  me  a  cigarette — not  to  smoke.  So  I  en- 
joy quantities  of  stolen  pleasures,  which  are  the  nicest 
sort." 

Edgar  put  straight  with  his  toe  the  corner  of  the  rug 
which  Charlie  had  ruffled  when  he  sat  up.  That  also 
was  characteristic  of  them  both. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  pray  don't  think  I  con- 
demn you,  when  I  say  that  I  should  condemn  myself  for 
doing  that  sort  of  thing.  I  am  aware  there  are  many 
different  sorts  of  people  in  the  world." 

"  You  don't  really  mean  that?  "  interpolated  the 
other. 

1  *  Yes,  and  it  seems  to  you  priggish,  does  it  not?  Not 
that  I  mind.  I  was  saying  that  there  are  many  differ- 
ent people  in  the  world,  and  since  character  is  one  of 
the  most  unchangeable  things  there  are,  one  must  allow 
them  to  act  in  ways  in  which  one  would  not  think  of 


76  THECLIMBEE 

acting  oneself.  I  should  never  condemn  other  people, 
I  think,  whatever  they  did." 

"  You  would  if  it  injured  you,"  said  Charlie,  "  or 
injured  someone  you  were  fond  of. ' ' 

"  I  am  speaking  in  the  abstract,  about  the  prin- 
ciple." 

Charlie  got  up. 

"  Oh,  but  that's  an  impossible  way  of  regarding  the 
world,"  he  said.  "  The  world's  material,  and  though 
there  may  be  abstract  principles  behind  it,  yet  they  are 
dealing  with  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,  and  how  our  appli- 
cation of  a  principle  affects  them.  Your  principle,  for 
instance,  of  never  condemning  other  people  breaks 
down  as  soon  as  their  actions  begin  to  affect  you." 

Edgar  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  The  real  difference  between  us,"  he  said,  "  is,  as 
you  said  just  now,  that  by  your  plan  you  get  most  fun. 
I  should  hardly  have  called  it  a  plan  at  all.  You  have 
no  settled  object  in  life. ' ' 

11  I  don't  think  one  is  meant  to  have  a  settled  object 
in  life  till  one  is  forty, ' '  said  the  other.  *  *  Till  then  one 
ought  to  experimentalize — try  everything. ' ' 

"  With  a  view  to  seeing  which  is  the  most  fun?  ' 

"  Exactly,  and  of  doing  it  ever  afterwards.  I  think 
it  an  extremely  sound  plan.  What's  yours?  No,  I 
needn't  ask,  I  know  it  already.  It  is  to  do  your  duty 
and  cultivate  your  mind.  Also  to  cultivate  other  peo- 
ple's, you  know,  which  I  think  is  rather  a  liberty.  You 
have  no  more  right  to  interfere  with  other  people's 
minds  than  you  have  to  cut  their  hair. ' ' 

Edgar  smiled  again  in  a  slightly  superior  manner. 
In  point  of  fact,  he  had  every  right  to  do  so,  since  he 
was  a  little  superior. 


THE   CLIMBER  77 

"  There  are  always  two  ways  in  which  to  put  a 
thing,"  he  said,  "  the  appreciative  and  the  deprecia- 
tory. When  you  tell  me  that  my  object  is  to  do  my  duty 
and  cultivate  my  mind,  you  describe  my  object  quite 
correctly,  but  use  a  phraseology  that  makes  it  appear 
priggish.  Personally  I  do  not  think  it  priggish  to  do 
one's  duty,  though  it  no  doubt  savours  of  priggishness 
to  say  so  like  that. ' ' 

"  Sorry;  I  didn't  mean  to  be  offensive." 

"  You  weren't;  at  least,  if  you  did,  it  was  quite  un- 
successful. I  never  take  offence,  you  see." 

Charlie  got  up  with  a  stifled  note  of  impatience. 

"  No;  I  wish  you  did  sometimes.  You — you  wear 
armour,  you  know.  I  wish  you  would  take  it  off  and 
pawn  it.  Yes,  that's  what's  the  matter  with  you.  You 
aren't  greedy ;  you  aren't  a  liar,  or  lazy,  or  a  drunkard ; 
you  don't  lose  your  temper.  I  don't  think  you  ever 
want  to  behave  yourself  unseemly.  Really,  when  one 
conies  to  think  of  it,  I  don't  know  why  I  like  you  so 
much. ' ' 

Edgar  Brayton  had  quite  unconsciously  taken  a  cig- 
arette again,  and  as  unconsciously,  while  this  list  of  his 
virtues  was  being  recited,  had  lit  it.  His  cousin,  with 
secret  glee,  had  observed  this,  and  continued  talking 
volubly  in  order  to  keep  Edgar's  mind  occupied  till  it 
was  finished. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  because  you  are  so  extremely  effi- 
cient," he  said.  "  You  lead  such  a  neat  life.  Things 
happen  as  you  intend.  Yet  I  don't  believe  you  get  any 
really  keen  satisfaction  out  of  any  of  them.  You  always 
get  all  you  want  without  wanting  it  very  badly,  where- 
as, though  most  people,  on  the  whole,  get  what  they 
want,  they  have  to  want  it  very  badly  first.  Finally,  I 


78  THECLIMBEE 

observe  with  extreme  satisfaction  that  you  are  half 
way  through  your  second  cigarette  after  lunch.  Thank 
God  you  have  done  what  you  didn't  intend  and  I 
needn't  go  on  feverishly  jawing  any  more.  I  was  only 
keeping  your  mind  occupied." 

Brayton  did  the  most  consistent  thing  possible,  and 
threw  the  rest  of  it  away. 

' '  Brute !  "  he  said  without  annoyance ;  *  *  and  as  you 
won't  come  in  to  Brixham  I  shall  go  without  you.  I 
shall  be  back  by  six,  and  we  can  put  in  an  hour's  fishing 
before  dinner.  I've  been  here  a  fortnight,  and  I 
haven't  been  to  the  river  yet.  But  I  really  think  that 
I've  got  through  all  the  business  now.  It  is  so  much 
better  to  do  what  one  has  to  do  first,  and  what  one  likes 
afterwards." 

This  was  a  somewhat  sententious  close,  but  it  ap- 
peared to  him  to  be  rather  liberal  than  otherwise,  and, 
to  save  trouble,  he  walked  down  the  terrace  to  go  to  the 
stables,  rather  than  ring  the  bell  to  have  the  motor  sent 
round.  The  servants,  like  himself,  had  been  somewhat 
overworked  during  this  last  fortnight,  for,  with  the 
sound  maxim  that  it  is  better  to  see  things  done  than  to 
give  absent  orders  about  them,  he  had  come  down  a 
fortnight  before  to  a  spidery  and  disordered  house 
rather  than  command  the  dissolution  of  spider  and  the 
restoration  of  order  from  a  distance.  There  had  been 
a  great  deal  to  do ;  and  it  was  creditable  that  so  much 
had  already  been  done.  The  house,  at  any  rate,  was 
habitable  again  after  a  period  of  prolonged  neglect, 
during  which  only  a  room  or  two  had  been  used,  while 
the  rest  had  been  left  for  a  large  staff  of  servants, 
spoiled  by  the  want  of  supervision,  to  deal  with  as  they 
chose.  They  had  chosen  to  deal  with  it  very  badly,  and 


THE   CLIMBER  79 

Charlie's  advice  "  Sack  the  lot,"  had  been,  on  the 
whole,  complied  with,  though  differently  phrased. 
Brayton  had,  in  fact,  sacked  the  lot,  but  he  had  sacked 
them  severely,  after  conviction.  Though  a  clean  sweep 
had  been  made,  the  cleaning,  so  to  speak,  had  been  done 
in  bits,  and  the  new  household  had  been  worked  to  the 
limits  of  their  capacity  in  restoring  the  neglect  of  the 
old.  The  garden,  however,  was  still  an  untackled  prob- 
lem, except  in  so  far  as  a  mowing-machine,  as  has  been 
seen,  had  begun  to  operate  upon  it.  The  garden  would 
take  another  fortnight  more  in  the  planning  of  what 
should  be  done,  but,  the  house  being  finished,  Brayton 
felt  that  a  pause  in  life  was  justified. 

Brixham,  however,  remained.  He  owned  a  consider- 
able part  of  what  is  called  the  "  residential  quarter," 
though,  since  in  a  town  which  boasts  no  manufacturing 
industries  people  reside  in  every  quarter,  it  is  hard 
to  see  why  one  quarter  should  be  more  markedly  resi- 
dential than  another.  Indeed,  to  look  into  the  matter 
more  closely,  the  residential  quarter  is  generally  that 
quarter  in  which  fewest  people  reside,  since  the  houses 
and  gardens  there  are  bigger  than  elsewhere.  In  any 
case  it  was  this  quarter  he  owned,  and  so,  since  during 
this  week  the  garrison  was  entertaining  the  residential 
inhabitants  to  cricket,  tea,  and  a  band,  it  was  incum- 
bent on  him,  as  he  said  to  Charlie,  to  show  himself.  In 
his  heart  of  hearts  he  was  not  at  all  sorry  to  do  so, 
since  the  role  of  the  young  lord  in  a  provincial  town 
was  by  no  means  an  uninteresting  one.  He  felt  the 
part  too;  there  was  no  doubt  he  would  do  it  admi- 
rably. 

Proprietorship,  besides,  was  a  very  real  and  respon- 
sible thing  to  him.  Had  his  worldly  possessions  con- 


80  THE   CLIMBER 

sisted  only  of  a  canary,  he  would  have  done  his  best,  so 
long  as  the  stress  of  want  did  not  compel  him  to  sell 
it,  to  provide  it  with  suitable  food  and  a  clean  cage.  He 
would  also,  without  doubt,  have  striven  to  make  him- 
self known  to  and  appreciated  by  the  yellow  bird.  But 
Providence  having  granted  him  a  larger  ownership,  he 
felt  it  was  his  duty  to  behave  likewise  on  the  larger 
scale,  and  though  he  did  not  own  the  inhabitants  of 
those  excellent  cages  on  the  hill  at  Brixham,  and  had 
not  got  to  supply  them  with  butcher's  meat,  he  still 
felt  a  responsibility  toward  them.  He  wanted,  in  fact, 
to  be  an  excellent  landlord,  not  only  because  a  good 
landlord  is  more  likely  to  have  his  houses  full  than  an 
indifferent  one,  but  also  since  this  was  one  of  his 
duties ;  and,  as  his  agent  had  already  found  out,  ques- 
tions of  drainage  and  roof-repair  were  matters  with 
which  he  desired  direct  acquaintance.  Nor  were  his 
projects  limited  to  these  material  considerations;  he 
wished  to  know  with  more  than  pasteboard  civility  the 
more  substantial  of  his  tenants,  who  in  their  turn,  to 
judge  by  the  acres  of  calling  cards  that  he  had  already 
received,  were  equally  desirous  of  knowing  him.  The 
Firs  and  the  Granges,  and  the  Laburnums  and  the  Hol- 
lies, and  the  Views  and  the  Prospects,  had  already  come 
in  their  forests  to  pay  their  respects ;  and  in  this  swift 
motor-car  of  his  an  hour's  card-leaving,  since  without 
doubt  everyone  would  be  at  the  cricket  ground,  would 
pave  the  way  for  further  interchange.  The  practice  of 
leaving  cards  without  asking  whether  the  mistress  of 
the  house  was  at  home  he  strongly  deprecated,  but  it 
was  cheering,  since  he  had  so  many  calls  to  make,  to 
know  that  it  was  probable  that  not  anybody  would 
be  in. 


THE   CLIMBER  81 

He  drove  himself,  and  though  the  car  was  a  powerful 
one,  and  the  three  miles  of  white,  straight  road  between 
him  and  Brixham  was  empty  alike  of  passengers  and 
vehicles,  he  always  checked  the  throbbing  engines  when 
the  dial  showed  by  its  vibrating  finger  that  he  was  trav- 
elling at  the  outside  of  the  legal  limit;  for,  since  there 
was  a  regulation  that  no  car  should  go  faster  than  that, 
it  was  binding  on  drivers  not  to  exceed  such  a  speed, 
whether  anybody  saw  them  or  not.  The  fact  that  one 
was  unobserved  did  not  relax  the  obligation ;  it  would 
have  been  as  consistent  to  call  oneself  an  honest  citizen 
because  one  only  stole  when  nobody  happened  to  be 
looking. 

The  breeze  made  by  the  movement  was  pleasant  on 
so  hot  a  day,  and  pleasant  were  the  thoughts  with  which 
his  mind  entertained  itself  as  he  bowled  along  the 
straight,  empty  road.  He  was  full  of  schemes  for  a 
useful  and  busy  future  in  the  large  sphere  into  which 
he  had  lately  come,  and  though  the  responsibilities 
which  to  his  mind  were  implied  by  his  wealth  and  posi- 
tion were  immense,  the  burden,  so  far  from  oppressing 
him,  was  the  cause  of  a  rich  and  sober  exhilaration. 
Responsibilities  really  spelled  opportunities,  duty 
spelled  privilege;  and  it  was  with  the  eagerness  of 
youth,  combined  with  the  strength  of  manhood,  that  he 
planned  an  ever-widening  influence.  He  did  not  in  the 
least  want  to  preach  to  those  who  squandered  oppor- 
tunity and  melted  wealth  into  mere  excitement  and  sen- 
suous gratification  and  so  far  as  th*at  went,  the  dread- 
ful monosyllable  "  prig  "  was  no  label  for  him.  But 
though  without  the  desire  to  preach,  he  had  almost  a 
passion  for  the  practice,  which  was  the  outcome  of 
what  his  sermons  would  have  been,  and  in  so  far  as  that 


82  THE   CLIMBER 

went,  since  his  desire  was  self-conscious,  the  label  was 
correct.    The  couple  of  years  he  had  spent  in  the 
Guards  filled  him  now  with  regret  for  wasted  time,  and 
though  he  was  too  consistent  to  waste  more  in  regret- 
ting them,  the  regret  was  a  constant  spur  to  him.    Not 
that  he  had  any  intention  of  giving  up  London  and  the 
business  of  socialities  which  acts  both  as  intoxicant  and 
soporific  to  his  mind,  stimulating  it  on  the  one  hand  to 
activity  of  thought  and  impression,  and  drugging  it  on 
the  other  into  inactivity  of  action,  but  he  intended  to 
use  its  stimulus  and  discard  the  drug.     He  was  in- 
tensely English  in  the  way  that  he  took  such  relaxation 
seriously,  even  as  he  played  games  and  hunted  seri- 
ously for  the  sake  not  only  of  the  pleasure  they  gave 
him,  but  of  their  admirable  digestive  aids ;  but  he  was 
not  insular,  and  believed  that  even  in  Paris  there  was 
such  a  thing  as  intellectual  activity.    Nor  did  he  pro- 
pose, though  he  was  determined  to  set  aside  for  chari- 
table purposes   a   quite  considerable   portion  of  his 
wealth,  to  live  an  ascetic  and  penurious  life.    Beautiful 
things,  objects  which  educated  the  senses,  giving  acu- 
men to  the  eye  and  discrimination  to  the  ear,  were  as 
real  to  him  as  his  opportunities  and  his  privileges,  and 
were  a  right  stimulus  to  the  intellectual  and  artistic 
activity.     It  was  the  card-table,  the  race-course,  the 
scandalous  sofa  only  that  he  meant  to  avoid,  both  in 
London  and  here,  where  he  should  pass  many  months 
of  the  year;  he  would  collect  round  him  eager,  strenu- 
ous people,  who  longed,  like  himself,  to  live  a  full,  fine 
life,  not  narrow,  not  bigoted,  but  with  hands  of  welcome 
to  all  that  was  worthy.    Then  for  a  moment  he  turned 
to  the  practical  side  of  his  ideal,  as  he  began  to  pass  be- 
tween rows  of  detached  houses.    How  was  he  to  make 


THE   CLIMBER  83 

a  beginning?  A  Shakespeare  Society  was  all  that  im- 
mediately occurred  to  him,  and  this  somehow  was 
rather  an  anticlimax.  There  were,  however,  more 
pressingly  practical  things  to  do,  and  for  the  next  half 
hour  he  was  occupied  in  taking  rather  sharp  corners 
into  rather  narrow  carriage  drives,  and  inquiring  of 
neat  maid-servants  if  their  mistresses  were  in.  As  he 
had  expected,  their  mistresses  were,  without  exception, 
out,  and  his  packet  of  calling  cards  melted  like  summer 
snow. 

But  one  tiny  question  of  etiquette  a  little  perplexed 
him ;  among  the  cards  which  had  been  left  on  him  was 
one  inscribed: 

THE  MISSES  GRIMSON. 
Miss  LUCIA  GRIMSOX. 
Fair  View. 

He  had  gone  so  far  as  to  consult  Charlie  as  to 
whether  it  was  customary  for  unmarried  ladies  to 
initiate  a  call  on  an  unmarried  man.  Charlie  had  held 
that  they  were  probably  pushing  and  middle-class,  and 
had  advised  no  notice  to  be  taken,  but  Brayton  had  in- 
clined to  the  view  that  perhaps  this  proceeding  was  pro- 
vincially  correct.  Also  he  thought  he  remembered  the 
name,  though  he  could  attach  no  distinct  association  to 
it,  and  now  the  sight  of  the  Misses  Grimsons '  gate  with 
"  In  "  very  clear  on  the  doorpost  and  "  Fair  View  ' 
in  white  letters  along  the  top  bar,  decided  him.  What 
if  the  Misses  Grimsons'  proceedings  were  correct  or 
not  ?  It  was  a  kindly  thing  of  them  to  have  called ;  it 
would  be  a  churlish  thing  on  his  part  not  to  return  their 
civility.  Besides,  it  was  fairly  certain  that  they  would 
be  out. 


84  THE   CLIMBER 

The  bell  which  his  chauffeur  had  rung  tinkled  itself 
away  into  silence  again ;  bees  buzzed  drowsily  from  the 
strip  of  flower-bed  below  the  windows,  on  the  sill  of  one 
of  which  lay  a  girlish-looking  hat,  and  from  somewhere 
overhead,  in  a  higher  key,  came  the  sound  of  whistling, 
clear,  soft,  but  piercing  notes,  which  arrested  his  atten- 
tion. The  whistler,  whoever  it  was,  was  whistling  the 
melody  from  the  first  movement  of  Schubert's  Unfin- 
ished Symphony,  and  in  its  way  it  was  a  remarkable 
performance,  for  both  the  tone  of  the  notes  was  of  that 
lazy,  flute-like  quality  which  is  so  exquisite  in  itself, 
and,  an  even  rarer  merit,  the  notes  were  perfectly  and 
absolutely  in  time.  Then  the  door  was  opened,  and  to 
his  inquiry  whether  Miss  Grimson  was  at  home,  it  ap- 
peared that  Miss  Lucia  was. 

He  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  that  temple  of 
worsted  work,  and  while  Miss  Lucia  was  being  "  told,  ' 
he  looked  round.  It  surprised  him  a  little  to  find  how 
strange  a  mixture  of  objects  met  his  eye :  heavy  early- 
Victorian  furniture  was  decorated  with  unspeakable 
ornaments,  all  standing  on  woollen  mats ;  a  shiny  sofa 
of  American  cloth  had  a  long  covering  of  worsted  laid 
over  it  like  a  bedspread;  a  kettle-holder  was  hung  on 
a  brass  rail  by  the  fireplace,  and  a  Carlo  Dolci  engrav- 
ing smirked  on  the  wall  above  it.  These  things  were 
all  consistent,  part  of  a  whole,  yet  the  other  part  was  so 
intensely  inconsistent.  The  hat  on  the  window  sill, 
with  a  big  bow  of  scarlet  ribbon,  was  a  most  foreign 
object ;  on  the  piano  was  open  a  copy  of  the  Symphony 
of  which  he  had  just  heard  a  few  bars.  Omar  Khay- 
yam lay  on  the  bedspread  of  the  sofa,  and  on  a  table 
in  the  corner,  where  a  cut-glass  vase  might  have  been 
looked  for,  was  a  coarse  green  crockery  jug  with  a 


THE    CLIMBER  85 

great  bough  of  pendulous  laburnum  in  it,  where  calceo- 
laris  were  probable. 

Then  there  came  a  light  foot  in  the  passage  outside, 
and  Lucia  entered.  Then  he  remembered.  It  was  at  a 
dance  they  had  met ;  she  was  a  friend  of — that  he  could 
not  recollect. 

But  Lucia  gave  him  no  pause  to  consider. 

"  How  are  you,  Lord  Brayton?  "  she  said,  "  and 
how  good  of  you  to  call !  My  aunts  will  be  so  sorry  to 
have  missed  you.  They  have  gone  to  the  cricket  match. 
It  is  Dissipation  "Week,  you  know.  We  all  have  head- 
aches afterward." 

It  was  all  said  in  the  handshake,  and,  trivial  as  the 
words  were,  Lucia  had  thought  them  carefully  over  as 
she  came  downstairs.  Indeed,  it  was  partly  by  virtue 
of  their  triviality  that  they  were  so  admirable ;  but  they 
were  friendly  and  cordial,  and  by  their  very  lightness 
admitted  him  to  her  private  humorous  view  of  the  dissi- 
pations. Furthermore,  the  art  was  concealed ;  they  ap- 
peared quite  natural,  and  yet  they  thawed  the  ice  of 
what  she  expected  him  to  believe  was  their  first 
meeting,  for  she  made  not  the  very  slightest  claim 
on  him  to  remember  that  they  had  met  before. 
She  was  not  even  sure  that  she  wished  him  to  remem- 
ber it. 

' '  This  is  my  first  stroke  of  good  fortune  this  after- 
noon," he  said.  "I  have  paid  a  dozen  calls,  but  every- 
body is  out." 

Lucia,  for  an  infinitesimal  part  of  a  second,  consid- 
ered whether  she  should  follow  this  up,  and  ask  him  if 
he  was  sure  he  considered  it  good  fortune.  But  her 
common  sense  instantly  rejected  such  a  thing.  It  would 
not  be  exactly  fishing  for  a  complimentary  speech,  but 


86  THE   CLIMBER 

it  would  be  alluding  to  fishing-rods.  Instead,  with  far 
greater  tact,  she  answered  more  simply. 

"Yes;  all  the  world  is  broiling  in  tents  at  the 
cricket,"  she  said.  "  I  have  broiled  for  the  last  three 
days,  but  to-day  I  said  the  dissipation  headaches  had 
begun.  It  wasn't  true,  by  the  way,  but  it  was  lying 
with  a  moral  purpose. ' ' 

"  And  what  was  the  moral  purpose?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  wanted  to  practise,"  she  said,  looking  across  to 
the  piano,  "  and  I  wanted  to  read  a  book.  You  will 
have  a  cup  of  tea,  will  you  not?  Do  let  us  drink  it  in  the 
garden,  where  there  is  a  little  shade." 

The  complete  naturalness  of  her  manner  made  it  not 
even  occur  to  him  whether  Brixham  etiquette  allowed 
him  to  drink  alone  with  this  girl.  Besides,  he  could 
hardly  have  done  otherwise  she  had  come  down  to  see 
him  when  he  called,  apparently  without  the  slightest 
hesitation,  whereas  if  the  tete-a-tete  had  been  irregu- 
lar, she  would,  of  course,  have  said  she  was  not  in. 
Even  before  he  replied,  too,  she  had  rung  the  bell — 
whether  he  meant  to  have  tea  or  not,  it  was  clear  that 
she  did.  Her  manner  was  merely  simple  and  friendly. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  return  a  similar  currency. 

"  The  practising  concerned  Schubert,"  he  said.  "  I 
hope  the  book  was  on  the  same  level." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  charming  look  of  surprise, 
then  guessed. 

"  Ah,  it  was  on  the  piano,"  she  said. 

"  No.  I  knew  before." 

Again  she  wrinkled  her  forehead  into  a  soft  frown. 

"  I  give  it  up,"  she  said. 

"  You  were  whistling  it." 

She  nodded  at  him. 


THE   CLIMBER  87 

"  That  is  highly  likely.  You  see,  I  can  only  whistle 
when  my  aunts  are  out.  They  think  it  so  unladylike. 
Sometimes  I  whistle  when  they  have  gone  to  bed,  and 
always  if  I  am  walking  alone.  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  un- 
ladylike at  heart.  Isn't  it  a  pity?  Oh,  there's  that  aw- 
ful cat  again  on  the  flower-bed !  Might  I  trouble  you  to 
throw  a  small  stone  at  it?  It  digs  up  tender  plants  all 
day,  and  sings  songs  of  triumph  all  night.  Thank  you 
very  much.  It  will  now  go  and  meditate  evilly  in  the 
asparagus  for  half  an  hour,  and  make  fresh  plans." 

Lucia  was  quite  aware  she  was  talking  nonsense,  and 
carefully  observed  him  the  while.  He  had  thrown  the 
stone  with  precision,  because  she  had  asked  him  to,  but 
he  had  thrown  it  with  no  more  gaiety  than  he  would 
have  exhibited  had  he  given  her  a  chair  at  her  request. 
And  she  instantly  changed  her  tone. 

"  But  surely  one  may  be  forgiven  for  whistling 
Schubert, ' '  she  said.  * '  He  is  one  of  the  magical  things 
of  the  world,  is  he  not?  There  are  so  few  that  are 
really  magic.  Venice,  I  think,  must  be;  Omar  Khay- 
yam— that  was  my  book  by  the  way — is;  great  big  la 
France  roses  are ' 

This  was  far  better;  he  was  quickened  at  this. 

"  Really,  I  congratulate  you  on  your  selection,"  he 
said;  "  those  are  certainly  all  magic.  And  how  com- 
pletely one  piece  of  magic  outweighs  all  that  is  not 
magic.  I  would  cheerfully  rain  fire  and  brimstone  on 
to  Paris  and  London  and  Rome  and  Florence  to  save 
Venice." 

Lucia  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  spread  out  her 
hands  with  a  charming  little  desolate  gesture. 

"  And  I  have  never  seen  it,"  she  said.  "  Isn't  it 
maddening  to  think  that  Venice  is  going  on  all  the 


88  THE   CLIMBER 

time,  and  that  when  it  is  sunset  in  Venice  to-day  I  shall 
be  looking  at  that  stupid  cricket,  and  hearing  that 
ridiculous  band  play  Strauss  waltzes!  Tea  for  you? 
Sugar?  Milk?  I  am  so  hungry.  And  after  tea  I  can 
anyhow  show  you  a  magic  la  France.  After  all,  be- 
tween Schubert,  Omar  Khayyam,  and  the  rose,  I  shall 
have  had  a  very  nice  afternoon." 

Edgar  Brayton  did  not  usually  take  tea,  any  more 
than  he  smoked  two  cigarettes  after  lunch,  but  he  found 
himself  breaking  his  rule  without  any  sense  of  fracture, 
while  Lucia  entertained  him.  It  was  entertainment, 
too,  to  watch  her,  with  that  fresh,  eager  face,  that 
charm  of  vivid  girlhood,  that  entire  absence  of  self- 
consciousness.  There  was  also  something  very  attract- 
ive in  her  friendliness,  her  frank  avowals  of  her  tastes 
and  pleasures;  she  showed  herself  to  him  with  the 
frankness  of  a  boy  showing  his  room  and  his  books  to 
some  new  acquaintance.  He  had  till  to-day  seen  noth- 
ing of  those  who  would  be  his  neighbours  at  Brixham, 
and  it  struck  him  (though  he  was  not  in  the  least  su- 
perstitious) as  a  good  omen  that  he  should  open  ac- 
quaintance with  them  so  pleasantly.  Then  a  train 
shrieked  its  way  by  on  the  embankment  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  and  interrupted  conversation  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  Lucia  sat  up  and  looked  at  it  with  a  smile. 

"Ah!  and  I  love  that  too,"  she  said.  "  Isn't  it  nice 
to  think  of  all  those  carriages  full  of  people,  all  going 
to  fresh  places ?  I  do  hope  they  will  enjoy  themselves. 
Don't  you?  " 

This  was  almost  the  nonsense-mood  again,  but  it  con- 
tained more  of  Lucia  than  had  been  given  him  at  first. 
He  thought  about  his  answer  before  replying. 

"  I  don't  think  I  do,"  he  said.    "  At  least,  restless- 


THE   CLIMBER  89 

ness  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  a  virtue.  Of  course, 
eagerness  is,  but  isn't  it  rather  shallow  that  your  eager- 
ness should  demand  fresh  places  ?  Why  not  stop  where 
you  are  and  be  eager  over  a  fresh  book?  ' 

Lucia  leaned  forward. 

"  Oh,  go  on!  "  she  said.  "  Tell  me  all  about  that. 
That's  a  gospel  I  long  to  hear  preached." 

Insensibly  this  flattered  him. 

' '  I  wish,  then,  I  was  a  preacher, ' '  he  said ;  * '  but  I  am 
afraid  I  am  not.  Only  it  seems  to  me  that  people  talk 
about  what  they  would  do  if  their  circumstances  were 
different,  and  think  that  altered  circumstances  would 
expand  and  develop  them,  whereas  the  expansion  and 
development  come  from  within.  People  really  make 
themselves;  circumstances  have  very  little  to  do  with 
their  making.  For  instance " 

He  paused  a  moment,  finding  himself  already  com- 
mitted to  a  sort  of  intimacy.  He  did  not  find  fault  with 
the  intimacy;  he  only  wondered  what  had  caused  it. 
Then,  with  complete  honesty,  he  told  himself  that  two 
simple  people  were  talking  to  each  other. 

"  For  instance "  suggested  Lucia. 

"  Well,  just  this.  People  think  that  their  circum- 
stances make  them,  that  their  circumstances  bound 
them.  I  don't  believe  that  is  true.  Brixham,  so  the 
Londoner  might  say,  is  provincial.  That  would  be  be- 
cause he  is  provincial  himself.  But — here  am  I  coming 
to  call,  and  find  Schubert's  Unfinished  on  the  piano  and 
Omar  Khayyam  on  the  sofa,  and  you,  Miss  Grimson, 
who  find  magic  in  the  air  and  in  your  roses,  and  ro- 
mances in  an  express  train. ' ' 

Suddenly  he  recollected  that  he  was  seeing  this  girl 
for  the  first  time,  and  caught  and  bottled  up,  so  to 


90  THE   CLIMBER 

speak,  the  natural  instinct  that  dictated  his  last  speech, 
and  became  conventional  instead.  Yet,  perhaps,  it  was 
almost  more  natural  for  him  to  be  conventional  than  to 
be  natural.  That  is  the  case  of  many  people. 

"  In  fact,  it  is  completely  true,"  he  said,  "  that  we 
find  in  a  place  just  what  we  bring  to  it." 

Lucia  observed  the  distinction  between  his  former 
manner  and  this.  He  had  brushed  his  hair  and  put 
on  his  coat  again.  She  was  wise  enough  to  fol- 
low his  lead,  not  wrench  him  back  again.  She  got  up, 
laughing. 

"  So  that  if  one  feels  dull  or  bored,"  she  said,  "  one 
may  know  that  there  is  a  dull  or  boring  person  present, 
and  make  a  very  good  guess  as  to  who  that  person  is. 
Do  come  and  see  my  rose.  Aunt  Cathie  said  it  was  dy- 
ing a  month  ago,  which  roused  it.  That  is  so  natural, 
is  it  not  I  I  am  sure  when  the  family  doctor  tells  me 
I  am  dying,  I  shall  feel  I  must  show  him  that  he  is  mis- 
taken. By  the  way,  have  you  seen  Maud  Eddis  again? 
She  is  my  greatest  friend." 

This  took  the  conversation  back  to  Maud,  and  closely 
as  Lucia  had  applied  herself  to  it  before,  she  listened 
even  more  intently  now.  Though  at  the  moment  of 
meeting  her  he  had  not  recollected  the  connection  in 
which  he  had  seen  her  before,  his  memory  of  Maud  was 
vivid. 

"  But  there  is  a  splendid  example  of  what  we  were 
saying,"  he  said.  "  I  never  knew  anyon^  with  so  in- 
dividual an  atmosphere.  Can  you  imagine  living  in  the 
provinces  would  ever  make  her  provincial,  or  living  in 
town  would  make  her  worldly!  ' 

11  Ah!  that  is  interesting,"  said  Lucia.  "  And  what 
is  her  atmosphere  I  " 


THE   CLIMBER  91 

* '  Surely,  you  who  know  her  so  well  must  know.  It 
is  all  kindliness:  it  is  all  serenity." 

Lucia  turned  to  him  with  enthusiasm. 

*  *  Ah !  thank  you,  thank  you, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Praise  of  a 
friend  is  like  a  gift  to  one,  is  it  not  ?  Of  course,  I  knew 
what  Maud's  atmosphere  was;  I  wanted  to  know  if  it 
struck  you,  too.  But  those  are  qualities  of  character, 
are  they  not  f  I  think  provincialism  affects  the  intellect 
more  than  the  soul.  Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  if 
Maud  was  stuck  down  here No,  even  that  is  a  dis- 
loyalty. And  here  is  my  la  France.  Is  it  not  superb  ?  ' ' 

Lucia  had  let  it  be  understood  that  she  was  going  to 
see  the  cricket  later  on,  but  when  Lord  Brayton  took 
his  departure  she  refused,  with  perfectly  spontaneous 
laughter,  his  offer  to  take  her  down  to  the  field  in  his 
car. 

11  Why,  Brixham  would  turn  faint  and  pale,"  she 
said, '  *  and  my  aunts  would  have  a  fit  each.  But  it  was 
kind  of  you  to  suggest  it. ' ' 

"  You  must  introduce  me  to  them,"  he  said.  "  Will 
you  be  so  kind?  " 

"  But  charmed,"  said  Lucia.  "  Good-bye,  Lord 
Brayton;  au  revoir,  rather." 

She  saw  him  off  at  the  door,  professing  an  interest, 
not  feigned,  in  the  motor,  and  turned  back  into  the 
house  again. 

"  As  it  is,  Brixham  will  turn  green,"  she  observed  to 
herself. 


D 


CHAPTER  V 

k  TIRING  this  last  month  Aunt  Cathie  had  been  all 
that  is  connoted  by  that  immense  word  "  happy." 
When   Lucia   had   come   to   live   with   her    aunts   a 
year    ago,    Aunt    Catherine  began   to    want,    though 
never  to  get,  but  during  this  last  month  she  had  con- 
tinued to  want  and  had  reaped  a  wonderful  harvest. 
Lucia,  of  course,  had  been  the  sun  and  wheat  of  her 
harvesting,  and  the  crop,  as  Aunt  Cathie  reaped  it,  had 
never  ceased  to  grow  and  ripen,  fresh  shoots  rising 
continually  from  the  ground  over  which  her  sickle  had 
passed,  rising  and  growing  tall  and  swelling  with  grain 
in  a  sort  of  celestial  profusion  unknown  to  naturalists. 
Before  the  beginning  of  the  halcyon  month  which 
dated  accurately  from  the  night  when  Lucia  had  lit  all 
her  candles  in  the  room  under  the  eaves,  and  called 
herself  to  account  for  what  she  had  done,  and  what 
she  had  left  undone,  Aunt  Cathie  had  grown  almost 
resigned— not  quite,  because  nobody  ever  gets  quite 
resigned  to  anything  he  desires— to  the  non-fulfilment 
of  her  dreams.    She  had  hoped  so  much  for  Lucia 's  ar- 
rival, had  told  herself  that  with  this  young  girl  in  the 
house  some  aftermath  of  youth,  anyhow,  would  gild  its 
grey  fields;  that,  as  in  a  glass  at  least,  she  would  en- 
joy the  reflection  of  sunlit  pictures  even  though  the 
actual  sun  had  long  ago  set  for  her.    Then  followed 
a  year  of  disenchantment ;  it  was  as  if  some  curse  had 
been  on  them,  so  that  instead  of  the  house  and  the 
elderly  sisters  growing  young,  Lucia  had  grown  old, 

92 


THE    CLIMBER  93 

had  lost  her  spring,  her  pleasure,  her  elasticity.    But 
a  month  ago  all  had  changed. 

Lucia  became  sunny,  became  young,  became  busy — 
such,  at  least,  was  the  natural  inference.  Aunt  Cathie, 
led  by  her,  became  so  busy  also  that  she  had  literally 
no  time  to  think  how  busy  she  was,  else  she  would 
surely  have  felt  giddy,  and  perhaps  taken  sal-volatile. 
Always  before  she  had  felt  (especially  in  July)  that 
she  was  being  driven,  and  that  if  she  was  not  going 
out  to  tea  to-day,  she  was  sure  to  be  doing  so  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  and  had  no  time  to  herself.  But  now, 
not  only,  in  spite  of  the  menacing  imminence  of  the 
alternate  Tuesdays,  did  girls  come  in  after  lunch,  and 
stayed  to  tea,  and  talked  French  or  sketched  or  played 
duets,  but  Aunt  Cathie  herself  took  part  in  these  deliri- 
ous entertainments.  She  had  on  hand  at  the  present 
day  a  majestic  water-colour  sketch  of  the  railway  em- 
bankment seen  over  the  pear-trees,  with  a  perfect  sun- 
set of  colour  on  the  right  to  portray  the  blaze  of  the 
flower-bed,  and  hardly,  so  to  speak,  had  she  sat  down 
to  put  in  more  of  the  pear-tree  touch,  than  Miss  Wilson 
arrived  from  the  Close,  to  talk  French  with  Lucia. 
Aunt  Cathie  herself  rarely  ventured  on  a  vocal  ex- 
hibition of  that  elusive  tongue,  but  she  understood 
quite  three-quarters  of  what  the  two  girls  said,  and 
sometimes  put  in  a  parfaitement  in  quite  the  right 
place.  Then  almost  before  she  had  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  understanding  so  much  French,  Miss  Ma j en- 
die  would  arrive  for  duets,  and  here  Aunt  Cathie  was 
again  in  request,  and  stood  beside  the  piano,  beating 
time  with  a  paper  knife,  since  Lucia  and  Miss  Majen- 
die  did  not  always  agree  as  to  the  beginnings  of  bars. 
They  were  learning  Tschaikowsky's  "  Pathetique  " 


94  THE   CLIMBER 

for  four  hands,  and  here  Aunt  Cathie  had  a  much- 
needed  rest  in  the  middle,  since,  when  Mr.  Tschaikow- 
sky  chose  (as  no  doubt  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  do) 
to  compose  music  with  five  crotchets  in  the  bar,  it  was 
really  impossible  to  follow  him,  not  to  say  conduct  him ; 
and  as  Cathie  sometimes  beat  six,  but  oftener  four,  it 
had  been  arranged  that  the  five-four  time  should  be 
unbeaten  since  it  was  unbeatable. 

Faint  signs  of  returning  animation  could  also  be 
seen  by  the  careful  observer  in  the  conduct  of  Aunt 
Elizabeth.  She  had  learned  a  new  stitch,  and  she  was 
learning  a  new  patience.  Otherwise,  she  was  much  the 
same,  and  still  extremely  difficult. 

Lucia  had  followed  Lord  Brayton  on  foot  to  the 
cricket  ground,  and  so  busy  were  her  thoughts  that  she 
noticed  neither  the  heat  of  the  day  nor  the  dust  of  the 
road.  A  month  ago  she  had  made  some  careful  plans, 
and  the  careful  plans  were,  and  had  been,  rewarded 
in  a  manner  that  it  was  profane  not  to  consider  provi- 
dential. She  had  had  only  to  bestir  herself  and  beckon, 
and  lo,  as  in  the  vision  of  Ezekiel,  the  dry  bones  of 
Brixham  began  to  rattle  and  come  together,  and  if  it 
was  not  an  exceeding  great  army  that  stood  up,  cer- 
tainly the  officers  in  the  garrison,  and  the  houses  in 
the  Close,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the^Hollies  and  the 
Laburnums  and  the  Cedars  and  the  Fig-trees,  instantly 
showed  that  they  were  not  thistles.  She  met  Miss  Wil- 
son at  a  garden  party,  and  instead  of  putting  her  nose 
in  the  air  and  talking  about  her  fortnight  in  London, 
put  her  nose  down  and  talked  about  the  coming  month 
at  Brixham.  They  were,  if  not  friends,  French  ac- 
quaintances, and  determined  to  meet  once  a  week  and 


THE    CLIMBER  95 

talk  no  English  at  all.  The  effect  was  that  Marjory 
Wilson  fell  in  love  with  Lucia,  and  if,  on  a  particular 
"Wednesday  they  were  not  talking  French  at  Fair  View, 
it  was  because  they  were  talking  English  at  The  Dean- 
ery. Similarly,  Nellie  Majendie,  the  daughter  of  the 
colonel  of  the  regiment,  took  Lucia  to  her  musical  bosom, 
and  wondered  how  it  were  possible  that  Lucia 
had  been  in  the  town  for  a  whole  year  with- 
out their  making  friends.  Then  again  Lucia  had 
sent  to  intimate  to  Helen  Vereker  that  all  she 
really  cared  about  was  flowers,  the  names  of 
which,  by  the  aid  of  an  old  gardening  manual, 
she  learned  with  extraordinary  speed,  and  morning  by 
morning  Miss  Vereker  used  to  arrive  with  a  small  bas- 
ket of  plants,  which  had  homes  made  for  them  in  the 
flower-beds  before  the  sun  came  on  to  them,  or  Miss 
Wilson  arrived  to  talk  French.  On  such  occasions 
Aunt  Cathie  took  her  part,  and  stood  by  like  a  grena- 
dier with  a  watering  pot  in  her  hand,  until  Miss 
Vereker  said,  "  Now,  please,  Miss  Grimson,  will  you 
pour  it  freely  and  then  stamp  it  down,  and  then  pour 
on  a  little  more,  while  Lucia  and  I  put  in  this 
salvia.  Lucia,  darling,  you  must  plant  that  yourself. 
It  is  simply  beautiful,  not  red,  like  the  ordinary 
autumn  salvia,  but  golden,  just  the  colour  of  your 
hair!  " 

And  then  the  two  girls  would  move  on  to  the  next 
vacant  space  in  the  flower-bed,  and  bend  over  it  with 
trowel  and  shrinking  from  worms,  and  secret  whispers 
would  pass,  which  poor  Aunt  Cathie  longed  to  hear. 
But  for  her  it  was  exciting  just  to  ' '  water  freely, ' '  and 
tread  down  with  her  large  firm  feet,  and  be  ready  for 
further  orders. 


96  THE   CLIMBEE 

Like  all  girls,  Lucia's  friendships  at  this  period  of 
her  life  were  with  girls.    That  they  talked  over  the 
youngest  officers  of  the  garrison,  and  the  sons  of  the 
Laburnums,  and  the  Fig-trees,  and  a  remarkably  in- 
teresting curate  of  St.  Faith's,  who  wore  a  rope  round 
his  chest  for  purposes  of  mortification  of  his  flesh, 
was  not  to  be  denied.    Miss  Wilson's  brother  had  been 
to  bathe  with  him,  and  had  seen  him  take  it  off,  before 
entering  the  water  with  a  loud,  flat  splash,  and  the 
strands  of  it  made  red  marks  on  his  skin.    He  had  put 
it  on  again  after  leaving  the  water,  and  had  gone 
straight  to  a  tennis  party  at  the  Hollies,  where  he  had 
played  with  extraordinary  skill,  and  had  said  a  num- 
ber of  tender  things  to  Miss  Wilson  between  the  sets. 
Her  brother  had  already  told  her  about  this  sensational 
fact  of  the  rope,  and  it  showed  that  he  must  be  think- 
ing a  good  deal  about  her  if  he  could  be  so  detached 
from  himself  while  privately  suffering  agonies.     She 
thought  he  meant  something,  but  she  wasn't  sure,  and 
what  would  Lucia  do?    He  was  the  younger  son  of  a 
baronet,  but  the  elder  brother  was  unmarried,  and  he 
really  had  the  most  delightful  eyes.     Also,  he  made 
smashes  at  the  net  which  were  extraordinary  consider- 
ing the  rope.    Or  did  he  make  it  more  slack  before  ten- 
nis parties !    Archie  thought  not. 

But  Archie  and  Tommy  and  Dicky  and  Harry  had 
interested  Lucia  very  little.  She  had  no  use  for  them, 
and  she  cared  not  at  all  for  what  was  useless.  At  the 
same  time,  she  kept  everything,  so  to  speak,  until  its 
uselessness  was  proved.  It  was  possible,  by  means  of 
the  girls  with  whom  she  played  duets  and  talked 
French  and  planted  salvias,  that  something  might  come 
her  way.  But  their  brothers  were  perfectly  futile;  the 


THE    CLIMBER  97 

only  thing  that  might  come  her  way,  via  them,  was 
marriage  with  them,  and  for  that  she  had  no  mind. 
The  younger  son  of  an  impecunious  baronet — she 
looked  him  up  in  Debrett — was  the  best  of  the  bunch, 
but  it  really  could  not  even  be  called  a  bunch.  As  far 
as  she  was  concerned  it  was  a  concourse  of  fortuitous 
atoms.  But  from  her  point  of  view,  though  she  neg- 
lected, or  rather  never  thought  of  neglecting,  the 
brothers,  she  made  friends  with  the  sisters.  With  an 
acuteness  that  did  her  credit,  or  at  any  rate  did  justifi- 
able discredit  to  the  world,  she  saw  that  the  lower 
rungs  of  the  ladder  by  which  a  climber  means  to  mount 
are  made  of  the  sex  of  the  climber. 

Up  to  a  certain  age  girls  will  help  the  climbing  girl, 
in  a  way  that  young  men  cannot  unless  among  them  is 
contained  the  young  man  she  wishes  to  marry.  And 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Brixham  she  had 
till  to-day  seen  no  young  man  whom  she  ever  so  faintly 
contemplated  in  this  light.  She  felt  certain  that  if  she 
was  to  make  herself,  to  emerge,  she  must  first  make 
friends  with  the  girls  round  her.  She  might,  perhaps, 
"  climb  out  "  on  them.  Now  who  could  "  climb  out  " 
anywhere  on  the  shoulders  of  the  younger  son  of  a 
baronet,  or  on  Claude  Wilson's  shoulders,  who  hoped 
some  time  to  be  a  partner  in  a  solicitor's  office,  or  on 
the  shoulders  of  Harry  Majendie,  who,  if  all  went  well, 
and  since  he  had  interest,  might  be  an  Archdeacon  be- 
fore he  died! 

But  the  climber  cannot  have  too  many  friends  of  her 
own  sex.  Something  may  happen  to  them;  they  may 
emerge  into  a  bigger  life,  where  the  men  of  a  country- 
town  cannot  emerge.  Also,  being  a  friend  of  a  girl,  she 
could  get  asked  to  what  is  known  as  the  "  county." 


98  THE   CLIMBER 

Very  likely  Harry  Majendie  knew  the  son  of  someone 
who  was  county.  But  he  could  not  sue  for  an  invitation 
for  Lucia.  But  Nellie  Majendie  could  (and  would)  cer- 
tainly ask  the  daughter  of  the  county  that  her  dear 
friend  Lucia  might  come  to  the  fireworks.  And  fire- 
works would  lead  to  lunch.  There  was  the  avenue. 
But  males  at  present  were  no  kind  of  use  to  her. 
At  least  she  had  not,  up  till  now,  come  across  the 
male  who  could  be.  And  Lucia  was  extremely 
practical. 

It  was  the  consciousness  of  which  these  thoughts 
formed  background  and  groundwork  that  made  her 
walk  to  the  cricket-ground  seem  short.  She  could  not 
long  resist  the  impulse  of  her  imagination  to  leap  for- 
ward, but  before  permitting  that  she  wished  to  think 
over,  and  perhaps  look  down  on,  the  rungs  of  the  lad- 
der which  she  had  already  traversed.  Yes ;  it  had  been 
successfully  done,  and  decidedly  she  had  enjoyed  her- 
self more  in  this  past  month,  and  had  become  of  greater 
importance  in  this  microscopic  world  than  ever  before. 
So  little  effort  had  really  been  needed,  and  it  quite 
pleased  her  to  think  that  others  as  well  as  herself  had 
been  the  happier  for  her  exertions.  And  the  greatest 
beneficiary  was  Aunt  Cathie,  on  whom  Lucia  almost 
looked  with  tenderness  sometimes.  The  old  dear  re- 
quired so  little;  to  be  allowed  to  beat  time,  to  show 
her  new  stippling  touches,  to  put  in  a  occasionally  gruff 
parfaitement,  meant  so  much  to  her,  while  to  have 
Aunt  Cathie  in  this  mood  reacted  again,  and  meant 
something  to  Lucia,  Fair  View,  even  when  they  were 
quite  alone,  had  been  so  much  less  boring.  After  din- 
ner, for  instance,  instead  of  Aunt  Cathie  nodding  in  a 
chair,  while  Lucia  herself  watched  with  suppressed 


THE    CLIMBER  99 

yawns  the  hopeless  efforts  made  by  Aunt  Elizabeth  to 
defeat  Demon,  and  made  perfunctory  replies  to  her 
occasional  asperities,  Aunt  Cathie  had  her  "  Gasc  "  or 
her  "  Fou  Yegof  "  open  before  her,  and  was  not  dis- 
turbed by  Lucia's  practising  of  difficult  passages  in 
view  of  to-morrow's  music.  Sometimes  she  even 
helped  Aunt  Elizabeth  with  her  dreary  employment, 
but,  to  be  frank,  she  did  not  receive  much  encourage- 
ment in  this  regard,  and  so  did  not  often  come  to  the 
rescue.  Her  efforts  and  exertions  in  any  case  were 
productive  of  greater  happiness  to  others  as  well  as 
herself,  and  she  did  not  in  the  least  grudge  it  them. 
Indeed,  she  began  dimly  to  see  that  it  "  paid  "  to  put 
people  in  a  good  humour,  and  since  every  paying  con- 
cern had  her  sympathy,  she  continued  to  invest  her 
time  and  her  efforts  in  doing  so.  The  effect,  too,  was 
to  add  to  the  estimate  of  her  own  charm  and  amiability. 

So  the  restrospect  of  the  last  month  being  satisfac- 
tory, and  showing  a  handsome  profit,  to  use  a  financial 
term  which  very  well  expressed  Lucia's  view,  she 
let  go,  so  to  speak,  of  the  past,  and  just  laid  before  her 
mind  the  new  factor.  It  had  come  like  some  sudden 
unconjectured  comet  into  her  horizon,  and  at  present 
she  knew  nothing  of  its  orbit,  but  it  was  large  and 
bright,  and  seemed,  during  the  survey  she  had  had  of 
it,  to  be  getting  quickly  nearer.  She  did  not  in  the 
least  credit  Edgar  Brayton  with  the  discernment  and 
good  sense  necessary  to  fall  in  love  with  her  at  first 
sight,  but  she  knew  quite  well  that  he  had  felt  her  to 
be  attractive.  On  the  other  hand,  what  he  had  said 
about  Maud  clearly  showed  that  he  had  a  great  ad- 
miration for  her,  while  Lucia  knew  what  her  friend 


100  THE    CLIMBER 

thought  about  him.    That  was  the  bald  statement  of 
the  case. 

Lucia  had  come  to  the  path  which  led  by  a  short  cut 
to  the  cricket  field,  and  she  left  the  hot,  dusty  road  to 
stroll  quietly  down  this,  while  she  thought  with  great 
intentness.  She  knew  that  she  must  act  in  one  way  or 
in  another  way,  and  she  had  to  choose. 

If  she  decided  one  way  she  would  firmly  and  un- 
erringly, though  with  all  the  tact  in  her  possession, 
chase  him,  run  him  down,  grab  him,  or  do  her  best 
in  that  line  (and  she  rightly  felt  capable  of  a  good 
deal).  On  the  other  hand,  Maud  was  her  greatest 
friend,  and  Maud  had  confided  that  she  was  in  love 
with  him.  And  she  stood  quite  still  for  about  three 
seconds. 

From  the  next  field  came  the  sunny  sounds  of  the 
band,  and  through  the  railings  she  could  see  the  many- 
coloured  crowd.  From  behind  her  came  the  clip-clop 
of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  road  she  had  left,  and  the  whir- 
ring buzz  of  motors.  The  sun  was  westerly,  and  spread 
a  golden  haze  over  the  brownish-green  of  the  scorched 
fields  where  swallows  were  flying  low.  All  this  she  saw 
with  photographic  distinctness,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  during  those  three  seconds  her  mind  was  empty. 
It  was  not  really  so,  it  was  only  that  her  mind  had 
-dived  deep,  leaving  the  surface  of  itself  automatically 
conscious.  Then  out  of  her  apparently  empty  mind 
there  suddenly  came  a  couple  of  thoughts  that  had  the 
distinctness  of  spoken  words.  Indeed,  she  repeated 
them  aloud. 

"  It  is  not  in  my  hands.  If  he  falls  in  love  with  me, 
it  will  be  a  thing  outside  my  power.  Besides,  Maud 


THE    CLIMBER  101 

would  not  wish  to  stand  in  my  way.  It  would  be  selfish 
of  her,  and  I  am  wronging  her  to  think  that  she  could 
be  that;  she  means  her  friendship  to  help  and  not  hin- 
der me." 

And  Lucia  went  on  again  with  her  quick  springy 
tread,  looking  her  very  best.  But  she  had  taken  a  step, 
and  knew  it.  The  knowledge  perhaps  helped  her  to- 
ward looking  her  best. 

The  field  was  full,  for,  as  Mrs.  Wilson  remarked 
more  than  once  to  Margery  after  a  magisterial  survey 
of  the  occupants  of  the  two  rows  of  chairs  that 
stretched  completely  round  the  ground,  "  all  Brixham 
seems  to  be  here. ' '  It  was  at  the  moment  that  she  made 
this  discovery  for  the  fourth  time  that  Edgar  Brayton 
entered  by  the  carriage  road,  and  it  might  have  been 
observed  that  Mrs.  Wilson,  Mrs.  Vereker,  and  Mrs. 
Majendie  all  got  up  with  a  glance  at  their  respective 
daughters,  who  followed  them  like  lambs  to  the  pasture 
rather  than  the  slaughter,  and  made  their  way  to  the 
refreshment  tent,  which  was  so  near  to  the  place  at 
which  motors  drew  up  that  the  ices  tasted  faintly  but 
unmistakably  of  petrol. 

There  the  three  lambs,  led  by  their  respective 
mothers,  met  and  entered  into  intimate  converse  to- 
gether, while  the  mothers  kept,  so  to  speak,  a  weather- 
eye  on  the  tent  door  by  which  it  was  hoped  that  Lord 
Brayton  would  presently  enter  to  have  tea.  Little  did 
they  know  where  and  with  whom  he  had  already  had  it. 

Mrs.  Wilson  had  remarkably  good  sight,  and  was 
noted  for  having  quite  lately  written  out  the  Lord's 
Prayer  on  a  piece  of  paper  that  was  the  size  of  a  three- 
penny bit.  It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  it  was  she 
who,  through  the  open  tent  door,  perceived  Lord  Bray- 


102  THE   CLIMBER 

ton  on  the  other  side  of  the  ground,  and  knew  that  for 
the  present  all  three,  or  all  six  of  them,  had  been  foiled 
and  baffled.  She  had  excellent  manners,  and  though 
naturally  eager  to  be  off  again,  listened  without  the 
slightest  show  of  impatience  to  Mrs.  Majendie's  ac- 
count of  the  Handel  Festival,  to  which  she  had  taken 
Nellie,  and  of  which  she  had  to  describe  '  *  the  glorious- 
ness  "  at  length.  Not  till  Mrs.  Majendie  had  quite  fin- 
ished (or  till  Mrs.  Wilson  really  thought  she  had)  did 
she  tell  Margery  that  they  were  missing  all  the  cricket, 
and  had  better  go  back  to  their  seats  again.  Whether 
Mrs.  Majendie  and  Mrs.  Vereker  suspected  something, 
and  were  determined  not  to  lose  sight  of  her,  or 
whether  on  their  own  account  they  felt  that  it  was  hope- 
less to  linger  longer  among  the  petrol-ices,  is  uncer- 
tain— their  motives  were  probably  mixed — but  they 
both  exclaimed  that  they  too  felt  that  they  were 
missing  all  the  cricket,  and  accompanied  Mrs. 
Wilson. 

Lord  Brayton  had  soon  become  visible  to  them  all, 
and  they  quickened  their  pace  a  little.  He  had  found 
an  empty  seat  behind  the  Colonel's  wife,  to  whom  he 
was  talking,  while  only  two  chairs  removed  from  him 
were  the  elder  Misses  Grimson.  It  was  natural  that 
the  Colonel's  wife  should  introduce  him,  and  he  moved 
up  next  to  Miss  Cathie.  This  looked  very  like  invidi- 
ousness  (a  quality  which  Mrs.  Wilson  particularly  de- 
tested) on  Miss  Cathie's  part,  though  the  absence  of 
Margery's  friend,  that  far  too  attractive  niece,  made 
the  invidiousness  less  black  than  it  would  otherwise 
have  been. 

The  circuit  of  the  cricket-field  was  large,  the  day 
was  hot,  and  very  soon  the  mothers  were  hot  too.  But 


THE    CLIMBER  103 

maternal  duty  impelled  them  to  go  round  to  the  other 
side  of  the  ground,  where,  as  Mrs.  Vereker  said,  you  get 
so  much  better  a  view  of  the  play,  and  the  procession 
went  briskly  on,  the  mothers  walking  before,  the 
daughters  following  after ;  Mrs.  Vereker  continued  her 
account  of  the  performance  of  "  Israel  in  Egypt"  to  a 
distracted  audience,  while  the  three  daughters  talked 
about  the  subject  of  their  walk. 

"  He  is  laughing  at  something  Miss  Cathie  has 
said, ' '  remarked  Margery.  ' '  I  wonder  where  Lucia  is ; 
she  has  met  him  before,  you  know. ' ' 

"  And  didn't  he  fall  in  love  with  her  at  once?  "  said 
the  loyal  Nellie. 

"  Lucia  didn't  mention  it!  " 

Mrs.  Majendie  turned  round  and  pointed  with  her 
bangled  arm  to  the  pitch. 

' '  Look,  what  a  beautiful  cut,  Nellie !  ' '  she  said, ' '  or 
was  it  a  pull?  It's  four  runs,  anyhow.  No,  it  isn't. 
How  quickly  they  pick  it  up  and  throw  it !  " 

"  Yes,  mother,"  said  Nellie.  "  Oh,  Helen,  I  do  hope 
Lord  Brayton  will  fall  in  love  with  her.  I  think  he 
must." 

Margery  put  in  her  word. 

"  Lucia  is  so  unselfish,"  she  said.  "  She  probably 
hasn't  come  this  afternoon  because  she  is  making  a  hat 
for  Miss  Elizabeth.  She  is  too  sweet  to  both  her  aunts. 
I  should  be  simply  fiendish  if  I  had  to  live  all  alone 
with  them." 

This,  again,  was  the  fruit  of  Lucia's  thoroughness. 
Her  month's  effort  had  been  perfectly  done:  she  gave 
the  impression  of  entire  sweetness  and  amiability.  But 
the  panegyric  was  cut  short. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  Helen  Vereker. 


104  THE   CLIMBER 

Lucia  had  a  favourable  moment  for  her  entrance. 
The  ball  after  that  which  had  produced  the  beautiful 
cut  had  taken  a  wicket,  and  in  the  pause  people  looked 
about  them.  At  that  moment  she  came  into  the  field 
from  the  footpath,  looked  brilliantly  about  her,  and 
caught  sight  of  her  aunts.  She  gave  a  little  smile  of 
recognition  to  Lord  Brayton,  and  with  brazen  impu- 
dence sat  down  in  the  vacant  chair  beside  him.  The 
baffled  procession  paused  for  a  moment,  then  went 
bravely  on  and  took  the  nearest  seats  they  could  find. 
But  they  were  three  whole  rows  off.  Luckily,  however, 
the  innings  would  probably  soon  come  to  an  end,  when 
there  would  be  a  general  resorting  of  seats,  and  Mrs. 
Majendie  tried  to  remember  if  there  were  eleven  a  side 
or  fifteen.  The  same  doubt  had  occurred  to  Mrs. 
Vereker,  and  they  had  a  little  argument  about  it. 

Lucia,  meantime,  was  unconscious  of  the  enormity 
of  her  crime  in  taking  the  chair  next  Lord  Brayton, 
for  though  it  was  difficult  to  see  how  a  party  of  six 
could  have  sat  on  it,  all  three  mothers  considered  that 
they  and  theirs  had  been  positively  defrauded.  But 
her  quick,  lucid  brain  was  somewhat  acutely  occupied 
with  a  little  difficulty  in  which  she  had  possibly  landed 
herself.  For  it  had  been  she  who  had  taken  the  original 
step  of  calling  on  Lord  Brayton,  or,  to  be  more  com- 
pletely accurate,  had  thrust  the  card  engraved  with 
her  aunts'  names  and  her  own  into  the  hands  of  a  foot- 
man, and  had  instantly  retreated  again  on  her  bicycle. 
She  had  known  at  the  time  the  irregularity  of  such  a 
proceeding,  and  had  done  it  quite  deliberately,  simply 
because  she  wished  and  intended  to  renew  her  acquaint- 
ance with  Lord  Brayton.  Her  plan,  however,  as  she 


THECLIMBEE  105 

saw  now,  had  not  been  sufficiently  thought  out,  for  she 
had  anticipated  only  that  he  would  ask  them  to  garden 
parties  or  something  of  the  kind,  and  had  quite  over- 
looked the  fact  that  he  would  most  probably  return  the 
call.  And  now  that  she  found  him  sitting  by  her  aunts, 
he  would  probably — if,  indeed,  he  had  not  already  done 
so — mention  to  them  that  he  had  taken  tea  at  their 
house.  After  that  a  little  consideration  would  cer- 
tainly make  Aunt  Elizabeth  wonder  at  the  unusualness 
of  a  man  newly  come  to  the  place  calling  on  three 
maiden  ladies,  who,  as  far  as  she  was  aware,  had  not 
called  on  him.  Aunt  Elizabeth  might  not  see  that  at 
once,  but  in  a  day  or  two  she  was  almost  certain  to 
do  so,  for  it  was  eminently  characteristic  of  her,  so 
Lucia  thought,  to  make  disagreeable  discoveries  after 
a  little  interval,  during  which  others  imagined  she  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  occurrence.  But  even  while  she 
glanced  quickly  through  these  possibilities,  the  blow 
fell  in  a  smarter  and  more  unexpected  manner  than 
she  had  anticipated. 

"  I  was  so  sorry,"  said  Lord  Brayton  to  Aunt 
Cathie,  '  *  that  I  was  out  when  you  called.  But  I  have 
been  so  very  busy  this  last  fortnight  that  I  have  seen 
nobody  but  my  agent." 

Luckily,  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  the  other  side  of  Aunt 
Cathie,  and  though  she  would  indignantly  have  denied 
the  imputation,  the  fact  was  that  she  was  a  little  deaf. 
Aunt  Cathie,  however,  turned  to  Lord  Brayton  in 
scarcely  concealed  surprise,  when  she  saw  Lucia  look- 
ing at  her  with  entreaty,  and  nodding  gently  at  her. 
Aunt  Cathie  was  not  remarkably  quick  at  taking  hints, 
but  there  was  no  mistaking  Lucia 's  look. 

"  You  must  have  been  driven,"  she  said.     "  But 


106  THE   CLIMBER 

what  a  good  tiling  Lucia  was  in  to-day !  We  are  lucky 
to  have  such  fine  weather,  are  we  not!  ' 

That  certainly  was  a  safer  topic;  Aunt  Cathie  had 
changed  the  subject  with  a  wrench,  it  might  be,  but 
changed  it  she  had,  and  Lucia  was  grateful,  for  the 
greater  danger  of  Aunt  Elizabeth  knowing  was  for  the 
time  averted.  But  after  what  had  happened  it  was 
clear  she  must  make  Aunt  Cathie  her  confidante.  She 
thought  that  she  could  see  her  way  through  that. 

Her  opportunity  occurred  after  they  got  back  from 
the  match.  Elizabeth  instantly  went  upstairs  to  lie 
down  after  the  excitement,  but  the  other  two  went  out 
into  the  garden  to  see  how  things  were  looking 
"  against,"  as  Aunt  Cathie  put  it,  "  the  first  alternate 
Tuesday."  She  also  was  bursting  to  know  what 
Lucia's  signal  had  meant,  but  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone  Lucia  opened  the  subject  herself,  knowing  well 
that  an  unasked  confidence  is  more  highly  prized  than 
one  that  is  asked  for.  Aunt  Cathie,  she  felt  sure,  would 
ask  about  it,  unless  she  herself  took  the  initiative.  Nor 
did  she  intend  to  fall  into  the  further  mistake  of  in- 
venting palliatives  for  what  she  had  done.  She  wanted 
help,  and  knew  quite  well  that  help  is  given  most 
readily  to  those  who  are  abject.  She  prepared  to  be 
abject.  She  guessed,  too,  very  well  how  tenderly  (and 
how  queerly)  Aunt  Cathie  loved  her,  and  how  eager 
she  was  for  intimacy.  So  she  meant  to  make  the  most 
of  that. 

"  Aunt  Cathie,"  she  said,  "  I've  done  something 
quite  awful  and  disgraceful,  and  I  want  to  tell  you 
about  it.  May  I?" 

Cathie's  heart  gave  a  little  leap,  and  a  sudden 
colour  came  into  her  cheeks.  She  almost  hoped  that 


THE   CLIMBER  107 

what  Lucia  had  to  tell  her  was  very  bad  indeed:  it 
would  add  preciousness  to  her  confidence.  Her  emo- 
tion made  her  more  than  usually  brusque. 

"  Well,  get  on  then,"  she  said. 

"  I  tell  you,  Aunt  Cathie,"  said  Lucia,  "  because  I 
believe  you  are  my  friend,  and  would  like  to  help  me." 

The  pathetic  old  face  grew  more  eager,  and  Aunt 
Cathie  laid  her  hand  on  Lucia's  arm. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said. 

"Well,  look  away:  I  can't  look  you  in  the  face. 
What  I  have  done  is  this.  I  went  to  Brayton  Hall, 
without  telling  either  you  or  Aunt  Elizabeth,  and  left 
your  cards.  I  did  it  because  I  wanted  us  to  know  Lord 
Brayton.  I  like  that  sort  of  house :  I  want  to  be  asked 
to  it.  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you,  and  I  only  do  so  be- 
cause I  was  in  a  difficulty,  as  you  saw,  to-day,  and  was 
afraid  that  you  would  say  something  awful  to  Lord 
Brayton.  Oh,  and  I  thank  you  very  much  for  getting 
me  out  of  that  difficulty.  It  was  dear  of  you." 

The  speech  did  not  fall  short  of  perfection.  There 
was  an  entire  frankness  about  it,  an  absence  of  con- 
cealment, which  went  straight  to  Aunt  Cathie's  heart. 
It  was  so  well  planned  that  it  seemed  almost  brutally 
natural,  and  the  confession  that  Lucia  would  not  have 
told  her  had  it  not  been  for  fear  of  worse  consequences 
was  the  most  subtle  part  of  it.  It  was  wounding,  but 
of  the  nature  of  a  surgical  wound  that  implies  restora- 
tion. And  the  speech  was  completely  successful. 

Cathie's  first  and  almost  overwhelming  impulse  was 
to  kiss  Lucia.  But  there  was  an  even  kinder  thing  to 
do  than  that.  She  did  it. 

"  Don't  know  London,"  she  said,  "  but  perhaps  in 
London  it's  usual  for  a  lady  to  call." 


108  THE   CLIMBER 

Again  Lucia 's  instinct  served  her. 

"  No,  dear  Aunt  Cathie,"  she  said,  "  it  would  be 
quite  as  unheard  of  there  as  here. ' ' 

Then  the  first  impulse  became  quite  overwhelming. 
Aunt  Cathie  drew  Lucia's  head  down,  and  kissed  her 
firmly. 

"  Tell  me  anything  next  time,"  she  said,  "  before 
you're  in  a  mess.  Worse  it  is  the  better  I  shall  like 
it.  You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me.  I'm  an  old 
fool,  I  suppose.  Now  what's  to  be  done?  Elizabeth 
will  wonder  why  he  called;  about  Saturday.  You 
and  I  must  make  a  plan.  Just  you  and  I.  Our 
secret." 

* '  You  dear, ' '  said  Lucia  softly. 

Aunt  Cathie  gave  a  loud  sniff,  and  stepped  on  an 
earwig. 

"  Well,  make  a  plan,  Lucia,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
that  trembled.  "  I  can't  do  all  the  thinking.  Let's 
talk  it  out.  To-day  is  Thursday,  is  it  not! — Elizabeth 
will  say  it's  so  odd  he  called  about  Saturday.  Then 
she'll  suspect  that  I  left  cards  on  him  first,  because 
she  has  often  told  me  I'm  pushing.  Ha,  we've  got  it 
now.  I  shall  tell  her  I  have  called." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Cathie,  that  is  good  of  you,"  said  Lucia. 
"  But  won't  you  mind?  " 

"  Mind  what?    Telling  a  fib?    Not  a  bit." 

She  put  up  her  glasses  and  gazed  severely  at  a  pass- 
ing train. 

"  I  shall  like  it,  Lucia,"  she  said  harshly,  "if  it 
pleases  you.  Now  let's  have  no  more  of  it.  Look,  the 
sweet-peas  are  really  beginning  to  come  out. ' ' 

"  But  you're  a  dear,"  said  Lucia  again. 

' '  Stuff  and  nonsense, ' '  said  Aunt  Cathie  firmly. 


THE    CLIMBER  109 

Two  days  later,  confirming  the  accuracy  of  Cather- 
ine's conjecture,  Elizabeth  began  to  wonder  audibly. 
She  was  employed  on  the  new  patience  at  the  time, 
which  gave  her  an  adventitious  aid  in  dialogue,  since 
she  could  be  absorbed  in  the  game  whenever  she  did  not 
wish  to  answer,  and  make  her  own  remarks  whenever 
she  thought  of  them.  It  is  only  fair,  however,  to  add 
that  the  crisis  was  precipitated  by  Catherine.  She  shut 
up  1 1  Le  Fou  Yegof  ' '  with  a  snap,  having  got  to  the  end 
of  a  chapter. 

"I'm  thinking  of  sending  a  card  for  our  Tuesday 
to  Lord  Brayton,  Elizabeth,"  she  said. 

*  *  Red  ten  or  black  knave, ' '  said  Elizabeth,  trying  to 
think  of  something  sarcastic.  Then  she  was  brilliant, 
pausing  with  the  red  ten  in  her  hand. 

* '  The  King  is  to  be  at  the  cattle-show  that  day, ' '  she 
said.  "  You  will  no  doubt  send  him  an  invitation  too. 
And  black  nine." 

"  Must  be  civil,"  said  Aunt  Cathie.  "  He  called 
here,  and  had  tea." 

Lucia  shut  up  the  piano,  but  in  closing  it  the  lid 
slipped  from  her  fingers  and  fell  with  a  crash  that  set 
all  the  strings  jarring.  Aunt  Elizabeth  put  her  hand 
to  her  head,  and  drew  in  her  breath  in  a  hissing  man- 
ner. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Lucia. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Aunt  Elizabeth  faintly.  "  You 
couldn't  have  told  my  head  was  so  bad,  dear,  as  I 
have  made  no  complaint.  Red  eight;  but  I  can't  get 
at  it." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  by  an  occasional 
sigh  from  Aunt  Elizabeth.  Then  she  spoke  again. 

"  No  doubt  times  are  changed,"  she  said,  "  but  it  is 


110  THE   CLIMBER 

not  so  long  ago  when  if  a  young  man,  be  he  plain  Mr. 
Smith  or  a  Duke,  came  and  had  tea  alone  with  a  girl 
in  a  garden,  we  shouldn't  have  liked  to  express  our 
opinion  about  it.  So  I  express  no  opinion  now.  But 
I  suppose  I  have  a  right  as  to  my  feelings  on  the  sub- 
ject, though  I  keep  them  to  myself. ' ' 

"  Stuff,"  said  Aunt  Catherine  in  a  low  voice,  really 
not  meaning  Elizabeth  to  hear.  But  perhaps  the  shock 
to  the  aural  nerve  caused  by  the  crash  of  the  piano-lid 
had  stimulated  it,  and  she  did  hear. 

"  It  may  or  may  not  be  stuff,"  she  said  in  almost 
a  whisper,  '  *  though  I  am  not  aware  to  what  stuff  you 
allude,  but  I  repeat  that  as  long  as  I  do  not  give  vent 
to  my  feelings  they  concern  nobody  but  myself.  And 
with  regard  to  sending  Lord  Brayton  a  card,  I  am 
aware  that  you  intend  to  do  so,  Catherine,  if  you  have 
not  already  done  so,  and  I  merely  wish  to  say  that  if 
people  go  about  calling  us  pushing  and  forward,  I  will 
take  my  share  of  the  scandal,  as  if  it  had  been  I  who 
urged  you  to  invite  him.  Whatever  you  do,  Catherine, 
you  may  remember  that  you  have  got  a  sister  who 
would  never  turn  her  back  upon  you.  And  the  red 
eight  comes  down." 

This  tender  assurance  served  only  to  exasperate 
Aunt  Catherine.  She  had  heard  that  sort  of  thing 
before  and  knew  what  it  meant,  for  it  always  portended 
some  attack  on  Elizabeth's  part. 

1 '  But  we  always  send  cards  to  all  our  calling  list, ' ' 
she  said.  "  And  as  he  has  called,  he  is  on  our  calling 
list." 

"  Then  if  murderers  and  forgers  left  their  cards, 
should  we  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  on  our 
Tuesdays?  "  asked  Elizabeth. 


THE   CLIMBER  111 

"  But  Lord  Brayton  isn't  a  murderer  or  a  forger," 
said  Catherine. 

Elizabeth  gathered  up  the  cards  with  a  trembling 
hand,  for  it  was  clear  that  no  further  progress  could 
be  made. 

"  I  cannot  play  my  game  if  you  insist  on  arguing 
with  me,"  she  said,  "  but  it  is  not  of  the  slightest  im- 
portance, though  the  situation  was  interesting.  Even 
if  Lord  Brayton  is  not  a  murderer  or  a  forger,  I  do 
not  know  that  he  is  the  sort  of  young  man  whom  our 
mother,  Catherine,  would  have  liked  to  have  in  the 
house.  I  am  aware  ' ' — and  Elizabeth  put  her  handker- 
chief to  her  mouth,  and  spoke  through  it — ' '  I  am  aware 
that  I  am  old-fashioned,  but  I  do  not  know  that  I  wish 
to  change  the  best  feelings  in  my  nature,  and  when  a 
young  man  deliberately  comes  and  calls  and  has  tea 
without  having  been  asked  or  called  upon,  I  feel  that 
he  is  not  the  sort  of  young  man  to  encourage.  Such  a 
thing  was  not  done  in  our  mother's  day,  Catherine,  and 
I  do  not  think  our  own  days  are  better  in  that  we  do 
those  things  now.  Whether  it  showed  true  delicacy  in 
Lucia  to  give  him  tea  and  sit  and  talk  to  him  is,  of 
course,  a  matter  for  her  to  settle,  just  as  asking  him  to 
our  Tuesdays  is  a  matter  for  you  to  settle,  and  I  am 
aware  that  my  wishes  on  the  subject  will  be  dis- 
regarded." 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  won't  ask  him,"  said  Catherine. 

Elizabeth  removed  her  handkerchief. 

'  *  I  am,  of  course,  assuming  that  Lord  Brayton  made 
the  call  on  his  own  initiative,"  she  said.  "  But  from 
time  to  time  a  doubt  has  crossed  my  mind  which  I  have 
steadily  put  away  from  me." 

"  What  doubt!  "  said  Catherine. 


112  THE    CLIMBER 

Elizabeth  closed  her  eyes  and  folded  her  hands. 

1 1  As  to  whether  he  could  have  done  so  extraordinary 
a  thing, ' '  she  said  faintly.  * '  I  may  be  wronging  you, 
Catherine,  and  I  hope  I  am,  but  you  will  set  my  mind 
at  rest  if  you  tell  me  that  you  had  not  previously  called 
on  him. ' ' 

"  I  called  on  him  last  week,"  said  Catherine,  with  a 
sudden  and  stony  glance  of  triumph  at  Lucia. 

Elizabeth  pressed  her  fingers  over  her  closed  eye- 
lids, and  breathed  rather  quickly. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Elizabeth,"  said  her  sister.  "  We 
used  to  go  there  in  the  old  days,  and  I  should  like  to  go 
there  again.  You  would  like  to  go  there,  too,  only  you 
won't  say  so." 

"  I  am  foolish,  no  doubt,"  said  Elizabeth  with  sud- 
den asperity,  "  and  I  am  content  to  be  so.  I  wish  to 
ask  if  Lucia  accompanied  you  on  this  unmaidenly  ex- 
pedition. Poor  Lord  Bray  ton,  I  pity  him,  if  he  is  to  be 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  all  the  pestering  people  in 
Brixham. ' ' 

Lucia  had  a  sudden  impulse  of  kindness.  She  almost 
said  that  it  was  she  who  had  been,  and  not  Aunt  Cath- 
erine. But  her  common  sense  came  to  her  aid;  to  do 
that  would  only  fix  falsehoods  on  Aunt  Catherine. 

* '  Lucia  knew  nothing  about  it, ' '  said  Cathie,  rather 
appalled  to  find  how  finely  and  easily  she  lied. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  rose  and  tottered  to  the  door. 

"  It  is  past  my  bedtime,"  she  said.  "  Do  not  wish 
me  a  good-night,  Catherine,  nor  you,  Lucia.  It  would 
be  but  a  hollow  mockery." 

Aunt  Cathie  sat  silent  a  moment  or  two.  Then  sud- 
denly she  mopped  her  eyes. 

"  Poor  old  Elizabeth!  "  she  said.  "  She  doesn't  mean 


THE    CLIMBEE 

half  what  she  says,  Lucia,  so  don't — don't  be  dis- 
tressed. And  she  knows  she  doesn't  mean  it,  poor 
Elizabeth.  It's  awful  when  you  feel  you  can't 
help  acting  in  a  way  you  don't  really  want  to.  It's  the 
matter  with  lots  of  old  maids.  Get  a  touch  of  it  myself. 
Change  the  subject." 

Ah,  but  how  strong  a  touch  of  it  she  hid  in  those 
words !  The  desire  of  her  soul  was  vastly  different  to 
the  message  of  her  voice,  for  she  longed,  longed  that 
Lucia  should  just  come  across  to  her,  and  kiss  her,  or 
hold  her  hand,  or  even  only  pointedly  change  the  sub- 
ject, so  that  Aunt  Cathie  could  see  that  she  changed  it 
in  accordance  with  her  wish.  Instead  Lucia  changed 
the  subject  with  perfect  naturalness,  and  said  she  would 
go  to  bed  also,  as  it  was  past  ten. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HE  annual  visit  to  Littlestone  had  been  postponed 
this  year,  for  there  was  an  eminently  desirable 
tenant  who  wished  to  take  Fair  View  for  the  month  of 
September.  It  was  therefore  only  reasonable  to  go  to 
Littlestone  in  September,  while  Fair  View  would  be  oc- 
cupied, and  spend  August  in  Brixham,  though  August 
was  a  month  when  Brixham  was  not  at  its  best,  since  it 
resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  hot-house  in  which  were 
grown  plants  that  smelled  of  dust.  But  Lucia  had 
quietly  got  her  own  way  on  this  point,  so  quietly,  in- 
deed, that  both  Aunt  Cathie  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  thought 
that  they  were  the  originators  of  the  scheme,  though 
khe  scheme  implied  a  total  upset  of  all  the  habits  of 
years.  For  longer  than  either  of  them  chose  to  remem- 
ber, August  had  been  spent  at  Sea  View  Cottage,  and  to 
spend  September  there  instead  seemed  subversive  of 
phenomena  as  established  as  the  fact  that  the  sun  rose 
in  the  morning.  But  by  the  middle  of  August  they  both 
claimed  the  authorship  of  the  new  scheme,  and  won- 
dered how  Lucia  could  ever  have  thought  that  they 
were  going  to  Littlestone  in  August,  since  they  had  a 
desirable  tenant  for  the  house  in  September,  while,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  Lucia  had  thought  of  it  all,  and  quietly 
brought  it  to  pass. 

She  had  excellent  reasons  for  her  plan,  apart  from 
this  question  of  tenancy,  which  was  sufficient  for  her 
aunts.  For  Lord  Brayton  was  going  to  be  at  home  all 
August,  and  was  going  to  Scotland  in  September,  while 

114 


THE   CLIMBER  115 

Maud  Eddis  was  engaged  all  August,  but  wanted  to 
come  and  stay  with  Lucia  during  the  later  month.  She 
had  further  ascertained  that  there  was  a  spare  bedroom 
at  Sea  View,  and  that  Maud  would  be  a  welcome  guest. 
These  considerations,  however,  were  not  submitted  to 
her  aunts,  and  the  question  was  decided  on  the  grounds 
of  the  tenant,  about  which  Lucia  cared  very  little,  and 
thus,  though  the  plan  seemed  simple  and  sensible 
enough,  it  was  not  for  its  superficial  sensibleness  that 
she  had  brought  it  to  pass,  but  for  private  reasons  of 
her  own.  For  Brixham  would  be  very  empty  during 
August,  and  she  wanted  Edgar  Brayton  to  feel  dull. 
Following  out  his  own  plan,  he  had  been  extremely 
neighbourly  with  his  county  town,  and  she  wished  him 
to  find  few  with  whom  it  was  possible  to  be  neighbourly 
for  a  few  weeks.  He  had  come  to  both  the  alternate 
Tuesdays  in  July,  and  had  continued  to  be  growingly  at- 
tentive to  her.  She  wanted  to  give  him  the  opportunity 
of  making  up  his  mind  during  a  month  when  he  would 
have  few  distractions.  And  in  particular  she  did  not 
want  him,  after  what  he  had  said,  to  have  the  distrac- 
tion of  Maud.  She  wished  for  his  undivided  attention. 

At  the  present  moment,  at  any  rate,  she  was  get- 
ting it.  He  had  come  to  lunch,  since  she  had  ascer- 
tained that  he  had  business  in  Brixham  that  would  oc- 
cupy him  till  a  quarter  to  two,  and  she  had  received 
him  with  a  charming  "  frolic  welcome." 

"  Aunt  Elizabeth  isn't  in,"  she  had  said;  "  but  there 
is  cold  lamb  and  Aunt  Cathie  and  me.  Or  is  it  II 
And  I  bought  a  box  of  cigarettes  and  you  should  have 
seen  the  tobacconist  in  the  High  Street  stare  at  me,  as 
if  I  had  committed  some  unspeakable  crime  in  asking 
for  them.  I  suppose  he  thought  I  was  going  to  smoke 


116  THE   CLIMBEE 

them  myself.  Oh,  and  thank  you  so  much  for  the  first 
edition  of  Omar  you  lent  me.  Lots  of  the  lines  are 
different  in  the  later  edition,  and  I  don't  think  they  are 
improvements  generally,  do  you?  No,  don't  put  your 
hat  down  on  the  gong,  please.  Have  you  ever  had  lunch 
in  so  small  a  house  ?  ' 

Lunch  had  been  more  than  successful.  Lucia  had 
broken  up  the  lettuce  for  the  salad  with  her  hands,  ex- 
plaining that  to  touch  it  with  a  knife  made  it  taste 
steely,  and  had  made  coffee  for  him  afterward  in  the 
Turkish  fashion.  There  had  been  no  pudding,  for  she 
distrusted,  from  experience,  the  pastry  of  the  godly 
Mrs.  Inglis,  but  he  had  eaten  eggs  in  aspic,  cold  lamb 
and  salad,  biscuits  and  cheese,  and  some  late  cherries 
gathered  from  the  garden,  followed  by  coffee.  Lucia, 
in  fact,  had  gauged  him  with  a  supreme  accuracy ;  she 
knew  that  the  food  was  simple  and  excellent,  and  knew 
that  he  would  be  pleased  at  its  excellence,  and  pride 
himself  on  his  own  appreciation  of  the  spirit  that  di- 
rected its  simplicity.  He  would  lunch  well,  and  be  de- 
lighted at  his  own  good  taste  in  liking  the  absence  of 
parade.  For  he  had  lunched,  as  Lucia  knew,  being  a 
guest,  with  Mrs.  Wilson,  who  had  covered  many  dishes 
with  brown  sauce ;  and  he  had  lunched,  as  Lucia  knew, 
being  a  guest,  with  Mrs.  Vereker,  where  there  was 
corked  champagne  disguised  as  ' '  cup  "  in  a  thick  sort 
of  stew  of  strawberries  and  angelica,  but  corked  to  all 
eternity;  and  he  had  lunched  with  Mrs.  Mejendie  on 
flabby  salmon  and  advanced  quail.  She  had  been  a  guest 
there,  too,  and  saw  how  obvious  it  was  that  the  maid- 
servants were  not  accustomed  to  handling  dishes  that 
were  ordinarily  dispensed  from  the  table.  But  here 
Aunt  Cathie  gave  him  an  excellent  egg,  and  Lucia  gave 


THE   CLIMBER 

him  a  piece  of  cold  lamb,  having  made  the  salad  during1 
egg-time,  and  he  helped  himself  to  cheese  from  the  side- 
board, and  put  his  cherry  stones  on  to  his  other  plate. 
It  was  all  simple  and  calculated,  instead  of  being  pomp- 
ous and  unusual.  How  pompous  and  unusual,  also,  had 
been  the  conversation  at  those  other  depressing  ban- 
quets !  Mrs.  Wilson  had  clung  to  the  Court  Circular  as 
to  a  lifebuoy,  and  had  shown  an  amazing  knowledge  of 
the  movements  of  the  Royal  Family;  Mrs.  Vereker  had 
at  her  fingers'  ends  the  names  of  those  who  might  be 
found  at  Homburg  and  Marienbad,  just  as  if  she  had 
been  learning  by  heart  pages  of  the  World;  while  Mrs. 
Majendie,  with  higher  flight,  knowing  he  was  musical, 
again  discussed  the  Handel  Festival  and  knew  facts 
about  Schubert  which  would  have  been  most  reliable  if 
had  not  got  him  mixed  up  with  Schumann.  Lucia,  on 
the  other  hand,  profiting  by  these  failures,  did  quite 
differently.  She  talked  about  the  difficulty  of  growing 
broad  beans  in  a  very  small  garden,  and  wondered 
whether  they  were  of  nervous  constitution,  and  were 
disturbed  by  the  passing  trains;  praised  Canterbury 
bells  for  growing  anywhere  with  equanimity,  and  let 
out  casually,  as  if  by  accident,  that  she  had  set  herself 
to  learn  "  Hamlet  "  by  heart  as  a  holiday  task.  She 
had  taken  his  measure  exactly. 

Before  this  date  Aunt  Catherine  had  got  "  an  idea." 
She  felt  quite  sure  that  beneath  her  very  own  eyes,  and 
in  her  very  own  house,  there  was  going  on  what  she 
would  have  called  a  courtship.  She  could  see — though, 
of  course,  Lucia,  dear  child !  was  utterly  unconscious  of 
it — how  immensely  attracted  Lord  Brayton  was  by  her, 
and  with  a  heroic  sacrifice  of  her  own  inclinations,  since 
every  word,  every  look,  that  passed  between  the  two 


118  THE   CLIMBER 

was  a  matter  of  the  intensest  interest  to  her,  she  pro- 
ceeded after  lunch  to  leave  them  alone  in  the  veranda, 
in  the  most  natural  manner  possible,  and  go  down  to 
the  kitchen  garden  to  see  about  the  broad  beans  which 
had  entered  into  the  conversation  at  lunch.  It  was  a 
bad  excuse,  for  she  knew  that  Johnson  had  "  seen 
about  "  them  last  week,  and  had  torn  them  up  by  the 
roots,  as  they  were  mere  cumberers  of  the  ground.  But 
she  trusted  that  Lucia  did  not  remember  that. 

For  a  few  minutes  after  they  had  gone  out  he  was 
alone,  for  Lucia  went  in  to  fetch  the  matches,  and  he 
looked  round,  in  strong  appreciation  of  his  surround- 
ings, and  in  perceptible  appreciation  of  himself  in  ap- 
preciating them.  Small  and  simple  as  was  the  house 
and  garden,  there  was  a  refinement  and  exquisiteness 
about  it  that  shone  through  the  woolwork  of  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  as  X  rays  shine  through  otherwise  opaque 
substances,  and  he  knew  well  from  whom  that  ema- 
nated. He  had  lunched  in  a  small  villa,  only  just  de- 
tached, with  a  strip  of- a  garden,  in  an  intensely  sub- 
urban town,  but  instead  of  the  tedium  of  forced  con- 
versation and  pompous  display  there  were  culture,  hu- 
mour, naturalness.  There  was,  too,  the  presence  of  this 
girl,  a  Titian  translated  into  the  paler  hues  of  Saxon 
blood,  with  golden  hair  instead  of  red,  but  with  all  the 
fire  and  strength  of  the  South.  But  in  this  moment's 
pause,  while  he  was  alone,  he  could  not  help  being  grati- 
fied at  his  own  perception;  where  others  might  only 
have  seen  a  detached  villa  and  a  railway  embankment, 
he  saw  the  courage  and  the  culture  that  turned  them 
into  a  house  in  which  he  felt  at  home.  With  equally  fine 
perceptions  also  he  saw  through  the  rugged  brusque- 
ness  of  Aunt  Cathie,  divining  her  devotion  for  the  girl, 


THE    CLIMBEK  119 

and  not  wondering  at  it.  Charlie  Lindsay,  on  the  oc- 
casion of  a  garden  party  of  his  own,  to  which  Aunt 
Catherine  had  come,  had  summed  her  up  as  a  "  queer 
old  bird, ' '  and  seen  no  further.  That  was  like  Charlie ; 
to  him  surface  was  everything.  In  the  same  way  he 
had  only  seen  a  damned  pretty,  girl  in  Lucia,  and  had 
clearly  wished  to  make  an  impression  on  her.  From 
her  aloofness  Brayton  concluded,  rather  to  his  satisfac- 
tion, that  the  impression  he  had  made  was  an  unfortu- 
nate one.  Lucia  was  not  like  that;  she  was  not  the 
sort  of  girl  who  wished  to  flirt  with  every  presentable 
young  man  who  presented  himself. 

He  had  not  much  time  for  these  satisfactory  reflec- 
tions, for  she  was  soon  back  again  with  the  matches  and 
delicately  encouraged  him  to  talk  about  himself.  He 
proceeded  to  do  so,  though  under  the  impression  that 
he  was  talking  about  other  things. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  to  be  here  a  great  deal,"  he  said,  "  for 
I  have  no  intention  of  spending  my  life  in  London.  Peo- 
ple say  you  must  be  in  great  towns  like  London  or  Paris 
to  keep  your  intellectual  life  active,  but  I  do  not  at  all 
agree.  There  are  pictures,  music,  theatres  in  town,  of 
course,  but  I  very  much  doubt  whether  most  of  the  ef- 
fect of  those  things  is  not  sensuous  rather  than  intel- 
lectual." 

Lucia  leaned  forward.  She  wanted  a  cigarette, 
rather  badly,  but  she  had  heard  him  express  his  views 
about  women  smoking. 

"  How  do  you  mean?  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  think  I 
quite  understand." 

"  You  do  though,"  he  said,  "  because  you  practise 
all  that  I  am  saying.  Music,  for  instance.  In  town  I 
can  go  and  hear  the  Queen's  Hall  orchestra  give  a  per- 


120  THECLIMBEE 

feet  performance  of  Schubert's  Unfinished,  but  the  true 
musical,  intellectual  value  of  it  is  better  known  to  you, 
though  you  only  play  it  on  a  cottage  piano.  You  make 
it  your  own  like  that ;  it  becomes  part  of  you.  It  is  the 
same  with  painting;  the  man  who  knows  what  Velas- 
quez is,  into  whom  Velasquez  has  entered,  needs  no 
more  than  a  mere  photograph  of  Philip  the  Fourth  or 
that  wonderful  Admiral,  to  give  him  the  full  intellectual 
feast." 

Lucia  laughed. 

* '  That  is  a  comfortable  doctrine  for  those  of  us  who 
have  to  live  in  poky  little  houses  beside  railway  em- 
bankments," she  said.  "  Or  rather  I  think  it  is  an  un- 
comfortable one,  because  whenever  one  feels  that  one 
is  rusty  and  suburban  and  narrow,  you  tell  me  that  it 
is  one's  own  fault." 

"  But  you  do  not  feel  rusty  and  suburban  and  nar- 
row," he  said. 

"  Ah,  don't  I!  don't  I!  "  said  Lucia.  "  Of  course 
you  wouldn't  see  it — I  don't  mean  to  be  paying  you  a 
compliment,  and  there  is  nothing  for  you  to  acknowl- 
edge— but  of  course  when  I  am  with  you  I  don't  feel 
rusty,  because  you  bring  into  this  poky  little  house 
that  atmosphere  of  the  world,  of  culture,  of  percep- 
tion, and  naturally  that  makes  one  forget  the  rustiness 
and  the  narrowness  for  a  time.  I  used  to  be  worse 
than  I  am.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that.  I  used  to 
simply  despair  at  ever  getting  anything  out  of  life 
here.  Then  last  May,  as  lately  as  that,  I  turned  over  a 
new  leaf;  I  played  duets  with  one  girl,  I  gardened 
with  another,  I  talked  French  with  a  third,  and  Aunt 
Cathie  joined  us.  Wasn't  it  darling  of  her?  and  to 
hear  her  talk  French  is  quite  the  funniest  thing  in  the 


THE    CLIMBER  121 

world,  the  old  dear!  But  I  don't  want  to  talk  about 
myself ;  I  am  sure  the  secret  of  life  is  to  get  away  from 
oneself.  Or  rather " 

Lucia  paused  for  a  moment,  letting  her  eyes  grow 
wide  and  unfocussed. 

* '  Or  rather  the  secret  is  to  be  out  all  day,  is  it 
not  ?  ' '  she  said, '  *  and  come  home  to  oneself  in  the  even- 
ing, so  to  speak,  with  flowers  gathered  in  one  place  and 
tall  grasses  in  another,  and  arrange  them,  make  them 
beautify  one's  home,  and  then  perhaps  pass  the  even- 
ing by  oneself  with  them  to  bear  one  company — them 
and  the  dreams  you  weave  about  them,  of  the  dews 
they  were  out  with,  and  the  winds  that  have  whispered 
in  them.  But,  but  one  does  want  someone  to  talk  to 
about  them.  I  assure  you,  Lord  Brayton,  you  are  go- 
ing to  be  a  perfect  godsend  to  us  all.  Now  tell  me 
more  of  your  plans." 

Never  perhaps  had  Edgar  Brayton  been  so  stirred 
out  of  himself.  He  was  definitely  interested  in  this 
beautiful,  vivid  girl,  not  with  regard  to  how  she  struck 
him,  but  with  regard  to  what  she  herself  was. 

"  No,  tell  me  my  plans  yourself,"  he  said;  "  you 
will  make  poems  out  of  them. ' ' 

Lucia  cast  him  a  quick  glance,  and  then  looked  away 
again  over  the  garden. 

"  Well,  I  will  prophesy,  then,"  she  said.  "  You  will 
live  in  your  great  beautiful  house,  and  year  by  year 
it  will  get  more  beautiful.  You  will  have  pictures 
there  and  marbles,  and  Eastern  carpets  and  exquisite 
furniture,  and  all  that  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  the 
atmosphere  is  what  will  be  getting  more  beautiful, 
more  full  of  appreciation  and  criticism  and  culture. 
You  will  bring  great  parties  of  great  people  down  from 


122  THE    CLIMBER 

town,  and  one  day  there  will  be  acting,  and  one  day  a 
concert,  and  one  day  perhaps  you  will  all  sit  all  day  in 
the  gardens,  talking,  reconstructing  Life  as  it  should 
be.  How  busy  you  will  be,  too,  for  you  will  be  forever 
thinking  of  all  those  who  are  dependent  on  you,  and 
bringing  beauty  into  their  lives,  for  I  am  sure  you  will 
care  about  them  immensely.  You  will  make  your 
house  the  head,  the  fountain  of  a  new  artistic  and  in- 
tellectual movement;  you  will  teach  people  to  see  and 
hear,  you  will  make  them  understand  that  it  is  wiser 
to  think  than  to  eat,  and  better  to  be  busy  than  lazy. 
Lazy!  that  is  the  root  fault  of  so  many  of  us!  We 
won't  be  stirred.  But  for  heaven's  sake,  stir  us,  Lord 
Bray  ton!  Stir  us  up  like  you  stir  toffee,  don't  you 
know,  or  else  it  sticks  to  the  side  and  is  burnt  and  unr 
eatable.  Heavens !  How  lucky  you  are !  What  oppor- 
tunities! What  a  big  life  you  can  make!  And  now 
I've  quite  finished,  thank  you,  and  if  I  have  been  im- 
pertinent, please  forget  it." 

' '  You  have  not  been  impertinent, ' '  said  he,  '  *  but  I 
hope  I  shall  never  forget  what  you  have  said  to  me. 
But  I  want  a  little  more  yet 

He  paused,  again  leaning  forward,  again  almost  ab- 
sorbed, and  more  nearly  so  than  before,  in  not  only  the 
beauty  and  vitality  of  this  girl,  but  in  the  future  she 
sketched.  In  that  he,  again,  was  the  most  important 
figure,  but  just  as  he  was  absorbed  in  her,  so  he  was 
absorbed  in  her  idea  for  those  who  surrounded  him, 
his  servants,  his  tenants,  not  farmers  alone,  but  the  in- 
habitants of  such  quiet  commodious  houses  as  this, 
which  had  proved  to  hold  a  pearl.  And  then  he  tried 
to  banish  the  personal  interest — how  he,  that  is  to  say, 
would  figure  in  this  Academic  Arcadia  which  she  had 


THE   CLIMBER  123 

"  washed  in  "  for  him,  and  he  framed  his  question 
altruistically. 

"  You  said  you  were  sure  that  I  would  care  im- 
mensely about  my  dependants,"  he  said.  "  That  is 
vitally  true.  But  make  it  more  practical,  dear  Miss 
Grimson " 

Lucia  did  not  move  a  muscle,  or  dim  the  brilliance 
of  her  glance  by  surprise.  The  check  in  his  speech, 
after  he  had  said  "  dear  Miss  Grimson,"  was  his  own, 
not  suggested  by  her.  Indeed,  on  the  moment,  he 
thought  that  she  had  not  noticed  the  epithet  (which  she 
had),  and  felt  with  a  thrill — though  a  small  one — that 
there  was  something  in  her  which  answered  to  that  in 
him  which  had  made  him  say  "  dear  Miss  Grimson." 
But  at  the  moment  he  was  more  interested  in  her 
scheme  for  him  than  he  was  either  in  her  or  in  him- 
self. He  proceeded: 

"  Be  more  practical,"  he  repeated.  "  You  tell  me 
that  I  will — will,  make  my  aims  felt  by,  and  fulfilled  in, 
those  who  surround  me.  I  will  not  say  dependent  on 
me,  for  that  savours  of  self-consciousness,  does  it 
not?  " 

(It  did.) 

Lucia  carefully  and  naturally  looked  back  from  the 
railway  embankment  to  him. 

"  No,  it  is  a  phrase  merely,"  she  said;  "  we  mean 
the  same  people.  Whether  we  say  that  they  depend,  or 
surround,  does  not  matter.  But  I  chose  to  say  de- 
pendants. By  them  I  mean  your  scullery-maids,  and 
your  bootboy,  and  your  farmers,  and  your  friends, 
and  your  tenants,  we — I  mean,  who  live  in  your 
houses." 

"  And  I  want  to  have  friends  among  all  those,"  he 


124  THE   CLIMBER 

said.  "  You  class  my  friends  as  separate  from  my 
servants  and  my  farmers  and  my  tenants.  May  I  not 
have  friends  among  them?  ' 

This  was  an  opportunity  for  a  girl  a  little  less  clever 
than  Lucia,  though  quite  as  determined  a  flirt,  to  set 
a  new  and  more  personal  scene  for  the  conversational 
drama.  She  could  easily  and  naturally  have  said  that 
he  probably  already  had  many  friends  among  the  ten- 
ants of  this  residential  quarter,  which  would  narrow 
and  shape  the  field  at  once,  leading  it  to  a  point.  But 
she  had  the  wit  not  to  do  so. 

She  laughed,  with  a  little  deprecating  movement  of 
her  arms  towards  him. 

"  Oh,  be  quiet,  Lord  Brayton,"  she  said,  "  and 
don't  interrupt  your  practical  prophetess.  Depend- 
ants, dependants;  where  were  we?  Yes,  quite  so;  I 
mean  just  that,  your  scullery-maid,  and  your  bootboy, 
and  your  farmers,  and  so  on.  You  want  and  you  mean 
to  raise  the  level,  artistically,  intellectually.  You  want 
everybody  about  you  to  care  for  what  is  lovely — that  is 
the  best  word,  is  it  not,  for  it  means  so  much — and  you 
want  to  know  how  to  begin,  though  why  you  ask  me  to 
tell  you  I  can't  conjecture.  It's  no  use  hanging  up  Bot- 
ticelli photographs  in  the  kitchen,  or  putting  a  Raphael 
print  in  the  odd-man's  room,  or  leaving  a  Shelley  in  the 
stables,  or  whistling  the  '  Unfinished  '  below  the  win- 
dow of  your  chauffeur,  or  starting  a  Shakespeare  so- 
ciety in  Brixham,  or  a  literary  causerie  once  a  month 
at— at  The  Laburnums.  Let  me  think  a  moment— that 
is  not  the  way,  though  perhaps  some  of  those  things 
are  part  of  the  way.  You  may  see  a  big  stone  in  a 
field,  where  you  want  to  make  a  road,  and  though  that 
stone  won't  make  a  road,  yet  it  is  only  by  using  stones, 


THE    CLIMBER  125 

and  breaking  them  up,  that  your  road  will  be  made. 
Wait  a  moment!  ' 

He  was  quite  willing  to  wait  a  moment.  Her  beauty, 
her  vitality,  her  enthusiasm,  her  understanding  of  his 
aims  were  all  worth  waiting  for.  Then  she  leaned  for- 
ward, clasping  her  hands  together  between  her  knees, 
and  looked  at  him  straight,  speaking  quite  slowly  and 
weighing  her  words. 

"  Be  yourself,"  she  said — "  be  yourself  in  the 
truest  sense.  Pamper  your  passion  for  all  the  things 
that  are  lovely.  Don't  take  the  scullery-maid  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck,  and  say, '  Admire  that  Reynolds,  or  I 
give  you  a  week 's  warning !  '  but  work  at  everybody  on 
their  own  lines.  Ah,  that  is  just  it !  That  was  said  as  I 
meant  it !  Be  vourself  and  be  detailed ;  surround  your- 
self first  of  all  with  all  that  your  own  sure  taste  tells 
you  is  lovely,  and  you  may  be  certain  that  the  instinct 
of  perfection  will  spread.  But  it  will  spread  by  per- 
fection in  many  lines.  Your  chef — oh,  I  am  sure  this 
is  so,  and  I  will  tell  you  why  soon — will  come  to  your 
room  for  orders  (see  your  servants  yourself,  by  the 
way),  and  something  of  the  atmosphere  of  you  will  in- 
fect him.  He  will  do  his  very  best  in  his  line.  The 
man  who  cleans  the  plate  will  do  his  best,  when  he 
gradually  is  infected  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  best. 
Does  it  sound  ridiculous1?  If  so,  I  will  stop." 

"  Don't  dare  to  stop,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  best 
sense!  " 

"  "Well,  I  believe  it  is  sense.  Certainly  a  careless, 
slovenly,  unappreciative  mistress  makes  her  servants 
like  her;  it  is  certain  that  the  converse  holds.  It  will 
hold,  you  may  be  sure,  with  regard  to  your  farmer- 
tenants;  they  will  see  perfection  in  all  that  surrounds 


126  THE   CLIMBER 

you,  and  they  will  tend  to  imitate.  For  imitation  is  the 
most  natural  and  primal  instinct  of  all,  though  it  may 
happen  to  be  flattery.  Even  so  it  is  sincere,  according 
to  the  proverb.  So  far,  of  course,  it  is  easy ;  your  serv- 
ants naturally  follow  you.  And  the  plate  man  will 
clean  the  plate  better,  and  will  look  out  for  other  per- 
fections, and  the  chef  will  cook  better,  and  find  that  his 
concertina — or  whatever  chefs  play — is  not  up  to  the 
mark.  That  is  it  again!  You  want  your  dependants 
to  feel  that  they  are  not  up  to  the  mark.  As  I  say,  that 
is  easily  done  with  those  who  surround  you,  who  come 
in  contact  with  you." 

Lucia  was  quite  genuine  in  all  that  she  had  said,  and 
it  would  be  an  injustice  to  assume  that  she  had  said 
this  with  a  personal  purpose.  He  had  taken  it,  too,  in 
the  genuine  spirit,  though  if  Aunt  Cathie  had  said  ex- 
actly the  same  things  in  the  same  words,  he  might  not 
have  cared  so  much  about  her  enunciations.  Then, 
however,  having  led  the  conversation  away  when  she 
could  have  made  it  personal,  Lucia  brought  it  swiftly 
back  again.  She  only  wanted  a  few  personal  words, 
and  those  only  distantly  personal,  but  it  was  necessary 
to  have  them  now,  since  the  handkerchief  which  Aunt 
Cathie  had  put  over  her  head  when  she  went  to  look  at 
the  broad  beans  was  bobbing  nearer. 

"  Of  course,  it  is  more  difficult  with  regard  to  your 
dependants  here,  the  tenants  in  your  houses,"  she 
said,  "  since  " — and  the  phrase  was  intentionally  sar- 
castic— "  since  you  hope  to  benefit  us  also " 

He  had  to  put  in  a  disclaimer,  which  was  exactly 
what  Lucia  meant  him  to  do.  It  brought  him  back  to 
thinking  about  her  and  himself. 

"  Hope  to  benefit,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  make  me 


THE   CLIMBER  127 

out "  He  probably  would  have  used  the  word 

"  prig,"  but  she  interrupted. 

"  I  make  you  out  a  benefactor,"  she  said.  "  That  is 
what  you  have  got  to  be.  You  have  all,  absolutely  all, 
that  can  make  life  lovely,  and  you  must  use  it,  not  only 
for  your  servants,  but  for  us,  please — us,  the  inhabi- 
tants of  this  very,  very  provincial  town.  Ah,  by  the 
way,  I  said  I  would  give  you  a  proof  of  how  servants, 
direct  dependants,  are  influenced.  It  is  just  this. 
There  is  a  parlour-maid  here  called  Jane.  She  used  to 
sing  '  Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes  '  when  she  was  wash- 
ing up.  But  now  she  sings  the  melody  of  the  first 
movement  of  the  ;  Unfinished/  It  is  quite  excruciat- 
ing, but  recognizable.  That  is  the  principle;  multiply 
it  by  a  hundred  thousand  for  your  own  case." 

He  laughed. 

"  This  very  provincial  town?  "  he  suggested,  lead- 
ing her  back,  and  wishing  Aunt  Cathie  did  not  walk  so 
quickly  up  the  garden  path. 

* '  Yes ;  we  want  to  be  stirred,  to  be  made  busy  with 
beautiful  things.  Set  us  an  example,  for,  as  I  said, 
there  is  no  instinct  so  strong  as  the  imitative,  and — ah? 
dear  Aunt  Cathie,  how  are  the  beans  ?  ' ' 

Lucia  rose,  as  if  to  join  her  aunt.  Then  she  turned 
to  him  once  more,  and  spoke  quickly  and  low  the  last 
private  words  they  would  have  together  just  now. 

1 1  Show  us  a  man  who  does  not  live  on  the  suburban 
scale,"  she  said,  "  who  is  wide  and  busy.  We  want — 
we  want  radium!  " 

Edgar  went  back  to  Brayton  that  afternoon  with  a 
braced  and  tingling  mind.  Lucia  had  put  into  words 
for  him  all  that  had  been  as  yet  but  of  the  consistency 


128  THE    CLIMBER 

of  thought.  Her  ideal  life,  it  seemed,  was  just  the 
ideal  life  which  he  intended  and  meant  to  aim  at  and  to 
realize,  but  which  hitherto  had  seemed  distant  and  elu- 
sive. She,  with  her  practical  grasp,  had  taken  him  and 
led  him  right  up  to  it,  made  him  look  it  in  the  face, 
made  him  convince  himself  that  the  stuff  of  which  his 
dreams  were  made  was  capable  of  being  materialized. 
She  did  not  shirk  the  details  or  blur  the  outlines  of 
them;  she  did  not,  either,  shirk  the  difficulties,  or 
think  that  the  artistic  intellectual  life  which  he  wanted 
to  bring  within  the  reach  of  those  round  him  was  to  be 
done  by  putting  Botticellis  in  the  still-room  and  copies 
of  standard  works  in  the  stables.  And  how  right  she 
was  throughout !  He  must  create  the  atmosphere, 
which  should  spread  like  the  flooding  light  of  dawn, 
not  manufacture  little  pilules  of  culture  and  give  them 
to  other  people  to  eat.  How  well  she  understood ! 

Though  he  knew  that  it  was  he  who  was  to  be  the 
centre  of  this,  and  though  that  knowledge  intensely 
gratified  him,  he  scarcely  thought  of  himself  as  the 
centre,  but  of  the  rest  of  the  circle  to  its  farthest  cir- 
cumference. What  if  a  great  renaissance,  a  return  to 
the  love  of  art,  of  culture,  began  to  dawn  ?  Mixed  with 
the  senseless  and  selfish  expenditure  that  went  on  in 
the  world,  he  believed  there  to  be  great  quickness  of  in- 
telligence, great  eagerness  for  new  ideas,  great  love  of 
the  beautiful,  though  that  again  was  largely  subject  to 
the  dictates  of  what  was  called  fashion.  If  only  he 
could  help,  though  ever  so  lightly,  to  bring  that  about, 
how  noble  an  achievement,  and  how  worthy  of  utmost 
and  tireless  effort. 

Then,  even  in  the  middle  of  these  reflections,  a  train 
of  thought  more  vivid  than  they  drew  its  shining  fur- 


THE    CLIMBER  129 

row  like  a  comet  across  his  brain,  and  it  was  illumined 
with  the  image  of  her  who  had  made  his  own  aims  so 
dazzingly  real  to  him.  She  had  spoken  like  one  in- 
spired ;  it  was  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  culture  and  loveli- 
ness of  which  she  spoke  had  become  incarnate  in  her. 
And  then  he  knew  that  he  was  thinking  no  more  about 
what  she  said,  but  about  the  girl  who  said  it. 

He  was  alone  in  the  house  that  night,  though  he  ex- 
pected guests  next  day,  and,  as  was  his  custom  when  bv 
himself,  dined  with  frugality  on  a  couple  of  dishes,  in- 
tending to  spend  a  .long  evening  among  his  books. 
There  was  a  volume  of  French  memoirs  of  the  years 
preceding  the  Revolution  that  he  was  eager  to  read, 
and  had  just  begun,  but  to-night  the  splendour  of  the 
times  seemed  dimmed  to  him.  The  gold  and  the  carv- 
ing were  there,  the  sound  of  its  flutes  and  the  measure 
of  its  dances,  but  below  in  the  cellar  of  the  house  beau- 
tiful were  darkness  and  mildew  and  rotting  founda- 
tions. Sounds  of  crackling  and  falling  mingled  with 
the  music  of  the  flutes,  and  it  was  not  only  with  the 
swift  feet  of  the  dancers  that  the  floor  shook.  The 
witty,  light-hearted  pages  seemed  blistered  with  some 
corruption  that  came  from  within;  the  laughter  was 
not  sound;  the  flute-player  eyed  the  dancers  with 
stealthy,  hating  glances. 

He  shut  the  book  up  quickly.  It  was  not  from  a  rot- 
ten, decaying  stem  that  the  true  flowers  sprang,  nor 
from  a  tainted  soil.  "  Pamper  your  passion  for  what  is 
lovely  " — those  were  Lucia's  words,  but,  "  lovely 
means  so  much,"  she  said  also.  She  had  understood 
him  so  well;  here  it  seemed  that  he  understood  her  as 
completely.  The  loveliness  must  begin  from  within; 
he  was  sure  she  meant  that. 


130  THE   CLIMBER 

Radium!  She  had  said  that  Brixham  needed  ra- 
dium. He  understood  that  also;  it  wanted,  and  the 
whole  world  wanted,  those  who  by  their  own  nature 
burned  and  were  unconsumed;  those  whose  property 
was  light  that  came  not  from  the  combustion  of  other 
things,  but  from  their  own  illuminating  nature.  He 
had  seen  radium,  he  thought,  in  Brixham  that  day — 
even  her  who  had  spoken  of  it.  And  he  became  aware 
that  he  was  thinking  of  her  herself  again,  not  what 
she  said,  not  what  she  did,  except  in  so  far  that  these 
things  were  an  expression  of  her  and  of  her  enthu- 
siasm. 

The  big  drawing-room  where  he  sat  was  lit  by  elec- 
tric light  that  was  hidden  behind  the  cornice,  and  made 
an  illuminated  field  of  the  ceiling.  There  were  but 
half  a  dozen  pictures  on  the  walls: — four  superb  Co- 
rots,  and  a  couple  of  Turners  of  the  second  period. 
Each  of  these  had  its  own  light,  and  the  six  glorious 
canvases  were  like  windows  in  the  dull  gold  of  the 
walls.  From  one  window  there  came  the  faint,  dove- 
coloured  light  of  morning;  from  another  there  poured 
in  the  blaze  of  noonday;  from  the  third  was  seen  the 
crimson  splash  left  behind  by  the  sunken  sun ;  from  an- 
other there  looked  in  the  velvet  blue  of  night.  In  one 
Turner  the  sea  rose  mountainously  to  meet  a  thunder- 
laden  sky,  and  in  the  other  canvas  all  Italy  sparkled. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  room  the  tall  French  window  on 
to  the  veranda  and  the  lawn  was  open,  while  the  drawn 
brocade  curtains  just  stirred  in  the  night-wind.  And 
when  he  saw  that  dark  space,  Edgar  knew  it  was  not 
the  pictured  blaze  of  noonday,  nor  the  riot  of  southern 
sun  that  he  needed,  nor  yet  the  stillness  of  the  painted 


THE    CLIMBER  131 

night,  but  night  itself,  with  the  real  stars  burning 
above  him,  and  the  veiled  fragrance  of  dewy  flowers. 
As  for  the  book  he  had  looked  forward  to  reading,  it 
was  an  unspeakable  thing. 

He  went  out,  and  walked  slowly  at  first,  but  with  in- 
creasing speed,  as  his  thoughts  drove  him  down  the 
dewy  lawn.  The  lake  in  front  was  dark,  for  the  most 
part,  with  the  broad  leaves  of  the  water-lilies,  but  be- 
tween them  were  bits  of  reflected  sky,  in  which  the 
starlight  smouldered.  Beyond  lay  the  dark  grey 
spaces  of  the  downs,  and  beyond,  again,  a  brightness 
as  of  molten  amber  suffused  the  sky  above  the  lights 
of  Brixham.  And  though  to  right  and  left  of  him  the 
dim  dusk  was  exquisite  with  the  odour  of  the  flower- 
beds and  the  smell  of  the  dewy  grass,  in  spite  of  the 
magic  of  the  night,  it  was  towards  these  lights  that  his 
eyes  were  set.  Yet  unconsciously,  the  other  voices  of 
the  earth  spoke  to  him,  too ;  in  the  utter  simplicity  and 
humanness  of  the  love  that  was  beginning  to  beckon  to 
him,  he  got  more  out  of  himself  and  into  closer  touch 
with  Nature  than  he  had  ever  been,  and  for  once  he 
ceased  to  think  what  he  felt,  but  was  content  to  feel. 
Now  and  then,  from  mere  force  of  habit,  he  tried  to 
register  sensations,  to  remind  himself  of  the  beauty  of 
the  still  night,  but  he  could  not  actively  attend  to  his 
own  feelings  for  long,  since  he  was  busy  feeling. 
Something  from  outside  was  beginning  to  call  to  him — 
no  echo  of  his  own  voice,  no  sense  of  his  own  apprecia- 
tion of  romantic  surroundings,  but  something  apart 
from  him — a  star  that  sang.  From  the  amber  of  the 
light  in  the  sky  above  Brixham  it  sang. 

Love  was  dawning  for  him,  and  in  the  light  of  that 
uprising  sun  the  shining  and  glow  of  his  other  aims, 


132  THE   CLIMBER 

which  had  so  filled  his  mind  to-day,  burned  like  the 
quenched  lights  of  heaven.  Even  Lucia's  apprecia- 
tion of  them,  her  understanding  of  them,  her  instinct 
that  led  her  so  unerringly  to  show  himself  to  himself, 
faded,  and  it  was  she  who  mattered,  she  of  the  golden 
hair  and  enraptured  eye  and  beautiful  soul.  Tremb- 
lingly he  dared  to  hope,  too,  that  something  of  this 
dawn-light  was  gilding  the  sky  for  her;  she  could 
scarcely  have  divined  him  so  surely  if  he  had  been  in- 
different to  her.  And  he  did  not  come  to  her  empty- 
handed;  their  aims  were  one,  and  on  the  material 
plane  of  rank  and  riches  he  could  give  her  what  it  was 
idle  to  despise. 

Yet  how  little  all  that  would  be  to  her — she  who  with 
her  beautiful  noble  nature  made  of  that  narrow  home, 
that  strip  of  garden,  something  loyal  and  splendid. 
The  big  scale  was  hers,  and  in  nothing  was  that  more 
wonderfully  shown  than  in  her  dealing  with  little 
things.  How  tiresome,  how  cramping  and  paralyzing 
must  that  life  with  the  two  elderly  aunts  have  been  to 
any  with  large  tastes  and  fine  feelings  who  had  not 
also  courage  and  character  and  a  great  heart !  It  was  a 
touching  and  beautiful  thing  to  see  her  tenderness  and 
affectionate  solicitude  for  Aunt  Cathie,  who  to  the  gen- 
eral eye,  though  kindly  disposed,  appeared  to  be  a  very 
gruff  and  tough  old  lady.  Lucia  had  broken  off  what 
he  felt  certain  was  to  her  a  most  absorbing  talk,  not 
only  without  impatience,  but  with  such  kindly  welcome 
for  her  aunt  when  she  returned  from  the  inspection  of 
the  broad  beans.  She  had  scolded  her  gently  for  not 
putting  on  her  hat  when  going  out  into  the  sunshine, 
and  blamed  herself  for  not  having  seen  that  she  had 
done  so.  Then  she  dragged  up  a  basket  chair  for  her, 


THE    CLIMBER  133 

took  the  cushion  out  of  that  in  which  she  had  been  sit- 
ting to  make  a  "  soft  back  "  for  her  aunt,  and  with 
gaiety  and  laughter  talked  of  the  hundred  trivialities 
that  made  up  the  elder  woman's  life  and  interests.  She 
had  not  allowed  herself  to  be  benumbed  by  what  she 
frankly  confessed  was  a  very  provincial  town ;  she  had 
kept  her  light  shining,  and  not  suffered  it  to  burn  dim 
or  get  quenched  by  the  unoxydized  atmosphere.  That 
was  courage;  that  was  character;  wherever  she  was, 
whatever  station  in  life  she  occupied,  she  would  keep 
herself  up  to  her  own  mark,  not  be  cramped  with  other 
people's  limitations,  not  be  dulled  with  the  rust  of 
other  minds. 

The  great  clock  in  the  turret  above  the  gate  chimed  a 
long  mellow  hour,  and  he  walked  back  across  the  ter- 
race to  the  lit  oblong  of  the  drawing-room  window.  It 
was  a  little  dazzling  to  the  eye  to  come  out  of  the  dark 
into  the  strong  light  of  the  room,  and  something  of  the 
glitter  and  beauty  of  the  room  correspondingly  dazzled 
his  mind,  chasing  from  it  the  thoughts  that  had  been 
his  out  in  the  dark,  and  substituting  for  them  more  ma- 
terial considerations.  Indeed,  he  did  not  come  to  her 
empty-handed ;  in  the  vulgar  phrase  of  the  world,  which 
came  into  his  mind  only  to  be  condemned,  he  knew  that 
ho  was  a  great  match,  and  that  the  world  (again  vul- 
garly) would  feel  that  it  had  been  cheated  if  he  mar- 
ried Lucia.  But  for  that  he  cared  not  at  all;  if  any- 
thing, indeed,  so  far  as  just  now  he  gave  it  considera- 
tion, he  was  rather  gratified  at  the  thought  that  it 
should  be  so.  A  marriage  for  love  was  the  only  reason 
for  a  marriage  at  all. 

And  then  the  thoughts  of  the  dark  and  of  the  amber 
light  above  Brixham  and  of  her  who  dwelt  there  swept 


134  THECLIMBEE 

all  else  away  again,  and  lie  was  borne  out  of  himself 
by  the  embracing  tide  that  was  beginning  to  flow  so 
strongly  about  him.  He  was  not  quite  carried  off  his 
feet  yet,  for,  as  has  been  seen,  he  was  one  of  those  who 
are  apt  to  stand  very  firmly  upon  them,  but  already  he 
rocked  to  and  fro  in  the  stream  of  the  current  that 
came  not  from  within  him  but  from  without. 


CHAPTER   VII 

fTUVO  mornings  after  the  day  on  which  Lord  Bray  ton 
•*•  had  lunched  with  them,  the  unexpected  and  the 
dreadful  happened.  The  tenant  who  had  intended  to 
take  the  Misses  Grimsons'  house  for  September  died 
suddenly,  and  since  it  was  extremely  unlikely  that  an- 
other occupant  would  spring  up,  mushroom-like,  Aunt 
Cathie  spoke  sound  common  sense  when  she  said, 
"  We  might  as  well  go  to  Littlestone  now  as  not,  in- 
stead of  grilling  like  beefsteaks." 

It  was  at  breakfast  on  a  singularly  hot  morning 
when  she  made  this  pronouncement.  Aunt  Elizabeth 
really  agreed  with  her — in  fact,  she  intended  to  go  im- 
mediately, whatever  Catherine  said,  but  she  was  so 
constituted  that  she  had  to  object.  She  also  took  the 
fact  of  their  intended  tenant's  death  as  a  personal  in- 
sult to  her,  levelled  at  her  by  a  malignant  power  of 
some  kind.  It  had  hit  its  mark,  too;  she  was  grossly 
affronted. 

*  *  Of  course,  you  will  do  as  you  like,  Catherine, ' '  she 
said,  "  but  I  only  beg  of  you  not  to  lay  it  up  to  me  if 
we  are  all  in  the  workhouse  before  Christmas.  We 
have  taken  Sea  View  Cottage,  as  it  is,  for  September, 
and  we  shall  have  to  pay  the  rent  of  it  till  the  end  of 
the  month,  unless  we  conveniently  die  also.  If  we  go 
now,  it  will  make  another  fortnight.  And  more  board 
wages." 

Aunt  Catherine  went  through  some  slow  arithmet- 
ical processes  in  her  mind,  and  while  she  was  yet  si- 

135 


136  THE   CLIMBER 

lent  the  fire  kindled  in  Aunt  Elizabeth,  and  she  at- 
tacked, as  if  running  amuck,  everything  within  sight. 
Indeed,  she  attacked  what  was  not  within  sight 
also. 

'  *  It  is  the  third  morning  that  Lucia  has  both  missed 
prayers  and  not  come  down  yet,"  she  said.  "  I  won- 
der you  can  sleep  at  night,  Catherine,  in  the  way  you 
do,  for  if  I  heard  you  snoring  once  last  night,  it  would 
be  false  if  I  said  you  didn't  wake  me  up  a  dozen  times, 
with  the  thought  of  how  you  spoil  the  girl,  filling  her 
head  with  all  sorts  of  notions  of  marrying  into  other 
stations "  . 

Aunt  Cathie  snorted. 

"  Yes,  you  may  interrupt  me,  Catherine,"  said 
Elizabeth,  ' '  and  I  am  sure  I  make  no  complaint.  But 
when  it  comes  to  having  millionaires  and  peers  of  the 
realm  to  lunch,  while  you  go  and  look  at  broad  beans 
without  a  hat  afterwards,  it  is  enough  to  cover  me  with 
blushes  for  my  sister.  Pray  do  not  allude  to  the  mat- 
ter again." 

"  I  didn't,"  said  Cathie. 

"  You  may  think  you  didn't,  but  let  us  dismiss  the 
affair,  unless  you  wish  to  lay  the  blame  on  me.  Let  us 
talk  about  Littlestone.  As  I  say,  it  will  mean  that  we 
take  Sea  View  Cottage  for  six  weeks,  and  I'm  sure  the 
garden  stuff  that  they  let  us  have  there  doesn't  pay  for 
the  fire  we  use  to  cook  it  with.  And  as  for  broiling 
here  like  beefsteaks,  it  will  be  well  if  we've  got  the 
money  to  pay  for  the  broiling  of  one." 

"  But  who  talked  about  going  there  for  six  weeks?  " 
cried  Cathie,  determined  to  get  her  word  in.  "I  only 
meant  to  telegraph  to  Mrs.  Morris  to  ask  if  we  could 
have  Sea  View  from  the  fifteenth  of  this  month  till  the 


THE   CLIMBER  137 

fifteenth  of  next  month,  instead  of  having  it  through 
September.  You  speak  so  hastily,  Elizabeth,  and  tell 
me  that  I  mean  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  that  never  en- 
tered my  head." 

"  Pray  telegraph  all  over  the  country,  then,"  said 
Elizabeth. 

She  rose  and  took  her  egg  out  of  the  copper  egg- 
boiler  and  cracked  it  in  silence. 

"  It  was  as  if  he  did  it  to  spite  us,"  she  said, 
11  though  I  am  sure  that  I  don't  wish  to  speak  evil  of 
the  dead.  But  if  a  man  of  his  age  can't  walk  down- 
stairs without  falling  on  his  head  at  the  bottom,  they 
ought  to  have  somebody  to  look  after  him.  I  don't 
blame  him;  I  blame  those  who  should  have  seen  what 
his  condition  was.  People  with  fits  should  not  be  al- 
lowed to  rampage  all  over  the  house." 

She  sniffed  doubtfully  at  her  egg,  and  then  put  it  by. 

"  It  is  better  economy,  Catherine,"  she  said,  "  to 
pay  three-halfpence  for  an  egg  you  can  eat  than  a 
penny  for  one  you  can't.  Perhaps  after  this  you  will 
allow  me  to  go  back  to  Mr.  Tibbit,  instead  of  making 
me  buy  eggs  and  butter  from  Johnson's  wife.  I  make 
no  complaint." 

"  Try  another,"  said  Cathie. 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Elizabeth,  rather  excitedly. 
"  Though  Lucia  may  choose  to  come  down  to  break- 
fast at  the  time  when  they  ought  to  be  laying  for  lunch, 
I  do  not  wish  to  deprive  her  of  any  meal  she  may  be 
kind  enough  to  appear  at.  Let  us  speak  of  Littlestone. 
I  gather  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  go  tele- 
graphing to  Mrs.  Morris,  and  find  out  whether  we  can 
take  Sea  View  from — from  to-morrow,  I  think  you 
said." 


138  THE   CLIMBER 

"  Yes;  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  go  to-morrow," 
said  Catherine. 

Elizabeth  rose. 

"  Then,  if  you  will  excuse  me,"  she  said,  "  and  will 
make  my  excuses  to  Lucia,  I  will  go  and  make  up  the 
household  books.  Board  wages,  I  understand,  are  to 
begin  from  to-morrow.  Is  that  your  wish!  " 

Lucia  entered  at  this  moment. 

"  Oh,  I  am  late,"  she  said,  "  but  I  was  so  sleepy. 
Good-morning,  Aunt  Elizabeth;  dear  Aunt  Cathie,  do 
forgive  me." 

Elizabeth  laid  out  a  distant  check  to  Lucia. 

"  We  shall  meet  at  lunch,  no  doubt,"  she  said,  "  un- 
less you  are  going  to  some  fine  house  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Could  you  make  it  convenient  to  let  me  have 
a  quiet  hour  after  your  breakfast,  Lucia,  without  piano- 
playing?  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do  this  morning.  No 
doubt  Catherine  will  tell  you  the  plans  she  has  made." 

Elizabeth  tottered  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door 
with  extreme  care,  as  if  it  was  the  entrance  to  a  sick- 
room. 

"  Cross  as  two  sticks,"  observed  Aunt  Cathie. 
"  Poor  old  Elizabeth!  She'll  be  better  in  a  few  days 
if  we  can  get  Sea  View." 

Lucia  had  half  poured  out  her  cup  of  tea,  but 
stopped. 

"  Is  that  the  plan?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes.  We'll  go  to-morrow,  if  we  can  get  it.  I'm 
sure  we  can.  Mrs.  Morris  said  it  was  unlet  through- 
out August.  Why  broil  here?  'T  isn't  as  if  it  was  in 
Australia." 

Aunt  Cathie  meant  a  deep  significance  in  that  speech 
— a  significance  that  she  could  not  have  expressed  in 


THE    CLIMBER  139 

direct  words.  She  was  alluding  to  that  which  she 
dared  not  openly  allude  to.  But  whether  Lucia  saw 
the  allusion  or  not,  she  had  no  idea,  for  she  gave  no 
outward  sign. 

"  Then  we  stop  there  till  the  middle  of  September, 
instead  of  the  end?  "  she  asked. 

''Hope  so.    Why?" 

* '  Only  that  I  must  write  to  Maud,  and  say  that  she 
must  come  early  in  September,  instead  of  in  the  mid- 
dle. I  have  no  doubt  she  will  be  able  to  manage  it." 

Though  Aunt  Cathie  had  joined  in  the  French  les- 
sons, and  had  beaten  time  (except  for  the  Tschaikow- 
sky)  and  had  shown  Lucia  many  "  touches  "  in  the 
matter  of  sketching,  she  felt  dumbly  and  barrenly  that 
there  was  a  part  of  Lucia  that  she  had  never  been 
given  admittance  to.  That  sense  was  with  her  now. 
Though  Lucia  gave  an  excellent  reason  for  this  tiny 
adjustment  of  her  own  affairs,  she  felt  that  she  was 
silently  making  another  adjustment,  and  silently  plan- 
ning something  further.  But  Lucia's  silence,  which 
was  the  main  cause  of  this  imaginative  effort  on  Aunt 
Cathie 's  part,  was  soon  broken,  and,  as  if  with  a  weight 
removed,  she  became  herself  again. 

'  *  Ah !  it  will  be  heavenly, ' '  she  said ;  *  *  and  I  love  to 
think  of  the  cool  sea  and  the  fresh  winds  on  this  sort 
of  morning.  I  must  go  into  the  town  after  breakfast, 
and  tell  them  to  send  my  bathing-dress  at  once.  I  only 
said  I  should  want  one;  now  I  must  have  it.  And, 
Aunt  Cathie,  wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  have  a  little  tent 
of  our  own  on  the  beach?  I  saw  one  yesterday  in 
Tompkinson's,  quite  nice  and  quite  cheap.  We  might 
put  it  up  on  the  lawn  here,  too,  and  at  your  garden 
parties  you  might  have  tea  and  ices  in  it.  It  was  only 


140  THE    CLIMBER 

two  pounds;  do  let  me  give  half,  and  it  will  be  yours 
and  mine.  It  was  quite  waterproof,  the  man  said; 
if  it  proved  not  to  be,  he  would  take  it  back.  Besides, 
if  we  put  up  our  own  tent  on  the  beach,  it  will  save  a 
shilling  each  time  we  bathe.  If  we  are  there  a  month, 
do  you  see,  there  is  thirty  shillings  off  the  two  pounds 
instantly.  Fancy  getting  a  waterproof  tent  for  ten 
shillings :  that  is  what  it  comes  to. ' ' 

But  Lucia  revolved  many  things  when  she  started 
on  her  bicycle  after  breakfast  to  conclude  matters  with 
Mr.  Tompkinson.  In  especial,  this  premature  and  pre- 
dated departure  for  Littlestone  vexed  her.  She  had 
contemplated  another  fortnight  more  of  what  should 
be  a  dull  August  for  Lord  Brayton,  and  she  knew  she 
would  have  behaved  differently  when  he  lunched  with 
them,  if  she  had  thought  that  that  was  to  be  their 
last  meeting  for  a  month  or  more.  In  September  he 
was  going  to  Scotland,  and  she  had  certainly  meant 
to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis,  if  possible,  before  he  went 
there.  She  had  conducted  the  affair  of  the  lunch  as 
if  they  were  going  to  meet  again  before  long,  and 
though  she  had  done  a  certain  amount  of  quiet  fine 
work  on  that  occasion,  she  would,  so  she  felt  now,  have 
done  more,  if  she  had  known  that  she  was  making  ul- 
timate speeches  instead  of  penultimate.  She  would 
have  given  the  impression  of  even  greater  perception 
than  she  had  done;  she  would  have  given  (or  rather 
have  allowed  him  to  give)  a  more  personal  tone  to  the 
conversation :  she  would  have  been  even  more  tenderly 
solicitous  over  the  top  of  Aunt  Cathie's  head  than  she 
had  been,  would  have  run  into  the  house  to  get  an  ex- 
tra cushion.  But  her  regret  was  not  of  a  poignant  na- 
ture ;  she  still  believed  that  she  had  done  pretty  well. 


THE    CLIMBER  141 

Aunt  Cathie  had  given  her  the  telegram  to  Mrs. 
Morris  of  Sea  View  to  send  off,  prepaying  the  answer. 
And  as  she  pedalled  slowly  along  the  white  dusty  road, 
the  expediency  of  not  sending  it,  so  that  no  answer 
could  be  received,  occurred  to  her.  But  though  she 
knew  that  she  had  quite  sufficient  immoral  courage  to 
do  this,  if  it  really  helped  her,  she  saw  at  once  that 
there  would  only  be  the  gain  of  a  day  or  two  at  the 
outside,  since  Aunt  Cathie  would  telegraph  again,  and 
a  day  or  two  was  of  no  particular  use,  since  Lord 
Brayton,  as  she  knew,  had  a  party  coming  to-day,  and 
was  not  likely  to  be  bored  or  dull  (which  she  wished 
him  to  be)  while  they  were  there.  Had  she  only  known 
to  what  maturity  his  thoughts  had  arrived  on  the  even- 
ing when  he  walked  out  alone  below  the  stars  and 
looked  towards  the  amber  lights  of  the  town,  she  would 
have  spared  herself  this  trouble  and  perplexity,  and 
have  gone  to  Littlestone  or  anywhere  else  with  tri- 
umphant confidence.  But  not  knowing  that,  she  had 
to  make  the  best  plans  on  the  data  that  were  hers. 
Certainly  a  day  or  two  days  more  in  Brixham  would 
not  materially  benefit  her ;  she  might  just  as  well  send 
that  telegram  as  not.  Then  suddenly  she  said  "  Oh !  " 
quite  out  Toud,  broke  into  an  enchanting  smile,  and 
exchanged  her  strolling  progression  for  a  much  brisker 
rate.  She  even  passed  the  tent  shop  without  getting 
off,  and  went  straight  to  the  office  to  dispatch  the  tele- 
gram as  quickly  as  possible.  A  perfectly  simple  idea, 
and  one  that  would  embody  the  advantage  of  another 
interview,  had  occurred  to  her. 

Lucia  was  always  transparently  honest  in  her  deal- 
ings with  herself;  she  never  covered  up  a  piece  of  her 
mind  and  pretended  it  was  not  there,  though  she 


142  THE   CLIMBER 

habitually  showed  to  other  people  just  that  which  she 
thought  it  would  be  good  for  them  (or  for  her)  to  see. 
She  was  aware  that  such  an  attitude  might  have  been 
called  hypocrisy,  but  she  preferred  herself  to  call  it 
diplomacy.  And  on  returning,  after  ordering  the  tent 
and  her  bathing-dress,  and  sending  the  telegram,  she 
went  up  to  her  room,  and  proceeded  to  exercise  her 
gift.  A  rough  copy  was  needful  and  she  wrote  on  the 
back  of  an  old  French  exercise. 

"  DEAR  LORD  BRAYTON  " — 

(Lucia  paused  for  a  moment:  she  must  have  some 
perfectly  prosaic  reason  for  writing.  She  soon 
thought  of  one) — 

"  I  am  sending  you  back  your  copy  of  Omar,  with 
many  thanks.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  not  really 
quite  finished  transferring  the  alterations  into  my  own 
copy,  and  I  shall  venture  to  ask  you  to  lend  it  me  again 
in  the  autumn.  The  fact  is  that  both  my  aunts  are 
feeling  rather  pulled  down  with  this  stuffy  weather, 
and  I  have  persuaded  them  to  pack  up  at  once  and  go 
to  Littlestone  for  their  holiday,  instead  of  waiting  an- 
other fortnight  here,  and  I  simply  dare  not  take  your 
precious  book  to  seaside  lodgings.  So  many  thanks 
for  the  loan  of  it! 

"  I  long  sometimes  to  hear  more  of  your  schemes.  It 
all  seemed  so  big  and  wonderful,  and  it  will  all  be  true, 
the  most  beautiful  fairy  story  that  ever  happened. 

1 '  I  must  go ;  Aunt  Cathie  is  calling  me,  who  is  in  the 
throes  of  packing.  The  dear  always  leaves  out  what 
she  particularly  wants  to  take,  and  must  be  superin- 
tended. «  Sincerely  yours, 

"  LUCIA  GRIMSON." 


THE   CLIMBER  143 

The  rough  copy  was  after  all  quite  unnecessary. 
Lucia  read  it  through  twice,  found  nothing  to  alter, 
and  having  made  a  fair  copy  of  it  and  a  neat  parcel 
of  Omar,  put  the  two  carefully  away  until  it  was  cer- 
tain that  they  would  start  to-morrow. 

11  That  ought  to  produce  something  if  there  is  any- 
thing to  produce,"  she  observed  frankly.  "  Now 
about  Maud." 

The  answer  to  the  telegram  had  been  satisfactory 
and  one  morning  a  few  days  later  Lucia  was  sitting 
on  the  sands  just  to  the  east  of  the  single  row  of  houses 
that  fronts  the  sea  at  Littlestone,  letting  her  hair  dry 
in  the  sun  and  wind  after  her  bath.  The  sand,  trodden 
by  the  wavelet  feet  of  the  outgoing  tide,  was  wet  and 
shiny,  and  covered  with  little  ripples,  while  beyond 
stretched  the  great  pearly  levels  of  the  sea,  basking 
and  vacant.  After  the  confined  heat  of  Brixham,  the 
warm  salt  breezes  and  fresh  heat  of  the  seaside  were 
unspeakably  invigorating,  and  this  morning,  while 
Lucia  bathed,  Aunt  Cathie,  in  the  glow  of  rejuvena- 
tion, had  pulled  off  her  boots  and  stockings,  tucked 
up  her  skirts,  and  had  magisterially  waded  nearly  up 
to  her  large  knees,  heedless  of  the  scorn  of  Elizabeth, 
who  warned  her  of  the  danger  of  cold  salt  water  to  the 
aged. 

"  Most  bracing  and  refreshing,"  Aunt  Cathie  had 
said  decisively  as  she  put  on  her  stockings  again ;  "  it 
has  done  me  a  world  of  good,  Elizabeth,  and  I  shall 
paddle  every  day  while  we  are  here.  Fancy  never  hav- 
ing thought  of  it  all  these  years !  What  a  waste!  ': 

"  Then  don't  blame  me  if  you  are  a  cripple  all  the 
winter,"  said  Elizabeth. 


144  THE    CLIMBER 

Aunt  Cathie  strained  her  eyes  seaward. 

"  I  will  not,"  she  said.  "  Dear  me,  I  wish  Lucia 
would  not  swim  so  far  out.  There  may  be  currents, 
and  I  am  told  there  are  some  dreadfully  deep  holes 
about.  But  she  won't  hear  if  I  do  call.  I  shall  go  up 
to  the  house,  Elizabeth,  and  bring  down  letters  and 
papers.  Shall  I  bring  yours!  ' 

"  I  should  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  tent  and  rest,  if 
I  were  you,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  You  will  send  the 
blood  to  your  head,  walking  in  the  sun  after  paddling, 
so  don't  say  afterwards  that  I  didn't  warn  you.  It 
seems  to  me  that  all  we  get  out  of  the  tent,  which  was 
a  great  extravagance,  is  to  be  permitted  to  sit  outside 
in  the  shade  of  it,  as  Lucia  or  her  clothes  always  oc- 
cupy the  interior." 

"  For  one  hour  a  day,"  said  Cathie;  "  you  can  sit 
in  it  and  welcome  for  the  other  twenty-three.  Then  I 
shall  bring  your  letters,  shall  I?  ' 

"  No,  pray  do  not  touch  them,"  said  Elizabeth;  "  as 
like  as  not  you  will  drop  them,  carrying  them  about. 
I  warn  you  about  your  head,  Cathie. ' ' 

So  Cathie  went  off,  and  soon  Lucia  came  out  from 
the  sea,  bare-legged  and  bare-armed,  with  her  bathing 
dress  clinging  close  to  her  slim  figure,  and  sat  down 
dripping  by  Aunt  Elizabeth,  who  instantly  closed  her 
eyes. 

"  Lucia,  I  beg  you  to  go  into  the  tent  at  once,"  she 
said.  "  There  was  a  man  passed  ten  minutes  ago,  and 
it  is  likely  that  he'll  soon  be  back.  Though  I  have  no 
doubt  that  it  is  thought  quite  proper  now  for  a  girl 
to  show  more  arms  and  legs  than  I  should  like  to 
specify,  your  bathing  dress,  being  wet,  clings  very 
closely." 


THE. CLIMBER  145 

Lucia  looked  round. 

"  There  is  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child  for  miles, 
dear, ' '  she  said,  ' '  and  sitting  in  the  sun  after  bathing 
is  about  the  nicest  part  of  it  all.  I  only  wish  I  could 
take  my  bathing  dress  off.  Then  it  would  not  cling 
so  closely." 

Aunt  Elizabeth  gave  a  faint  scream,  then  recovered 
her  nerve. 

"  Lucia,  the  tent,"  she  said,  as  if  sternly  introduc- 
ing them  to  each  other. 

The  girl  made  a  rapid  and  sketchy  toilet,  and  with 
her  hair  down  her  back  was  sitting  again  outside  when 
Aunt  Cathie  returned. 

"  Two  for  you,  Lucia,"  she  said. 

"  I  hope  you  have  not  brought  mine,"  said  Eliza- 
beth. 

"  Couldn't.  There  weren't  any.  There's  the  paper 
for  you." 

Elizabeth  sighed. 

"  I  suppose  as  one  gets  old  it  is  very  natural  that 
people  should  forget  us,"  she  said.  "  Only  it  seems 
strange  that  there  should  be  two  for  Lucia  and  none 
for  me.  Let  me  look  at  them,  Lucia,  to  see  there  is  no 
mistake.  I  remember  last  year  you  opened  a  letter  of 
mine,  no  doubt  by  accident,  but  such  accidents  are  very 
annoying. ' ' 

11  Miss  Lucia  Grimson — Miss  Lucia  Grimson!  ': 
said  Lucia. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  took  them  and  turned  them  over,  as 
if  expecting  to  find  another  address  on  the  back.  Then 
she  looked  at  the  postmarks,  one  of  which  was  Brix- 
ham. 

' '  One  of  your  letters  has  come  from  Brixham, ' '  she 


146  THE   CLIMBER 

said.  '  *  It  will  be  pleasant  to  hear  what  news  there  is. 
Who  is  your  correspondent?  ' 

Elizabeth  was  notable  for  her  intense  curiosity 
about  other  people's  letters.  She  would  not  go  so  far 
as  to  read  letters  that  were  left  about,  but  she  con- 
stantly, by  means  of  questions,  direct  or  indirect,  tried 
to  glean  their  contents.  Though  she  never  remem- 
bered arriving  at  any  sensational  disclosure,  she  pur- 
sued her  passion  with  avidity. 

Lucia  opened  her  letter,  saw  there  were  four  sides  of 
writing,  and  that  it  was  from  Lord  Bray  ton,  and  in- 
stantly put  it  into  its  envelope  again. 

"  It  is  from  Lord  Brayton,"  she  said;  "  he  acknowl- 
edges the  safe  receipt  of  a  book  I  sent  to  him." 

But  Elizabeth,  too,  had  seen  there  were  four  sides 
of  writing. 

"  He  makes  a  somewhat  voluble  acknowledgment," 
she  remarked  bitterly. 

Lucia  smiled  with  perfect  good  humour. 

"  Yes,  doesn't  he?  "  she  said. 

She  read  her  other  letter,  which  was  from  Maud, 
and  communicated  the  contents.  She  proposed  to  come 
for  her  visit  during  the  first  week  of  September,  if 
that  suited.  Then,  without  the  slightest  appearance 
of  hurry,  Lucia  got  up. 

"  I  shall  go  up  to  the  house  and  get  tidy  before 
lunch,"  she  said. 

Elizabeth  waited  till  she  was  out  of  hearing. 

"  How  long  has  this  clandestine  correspondence 
been  going  on?  "  she  asked  her  sister.  "  There  were 
four  sides  of  writing.  I  saw  them." 

Aunt  Cathie  felt  hotlv  about  this. 


THE   CLIMBEE  147 

"  Then  you've  got  no  business  to,  Elizabeth,"  she 
said,  ' '  and  I  wonder  at  you.  You  demean  yourself  by 
looking  over  Lucia's  letter." 

* '  I  consider  it  a  providential  circumstance  that  I 
did,"  said  Elizabeth. 

'  *  Well,  then,  I  'm  not  of  your  way  of  thinking, ' '  said 
Cathie.  "  If  there's  anything  that  we  ought  to  know, 
Lucia  will  tell  us.  If  she  does  not,  it's  not  our 
business." 

"  I  shall  not  rest  till  I  find  out  the  contents  of  that 
letter,"  said  Elizabeth  firmly.  "  You  have  no 
strength  of  character,  Catherine ;  you  leave  everything 
to  me." 

"  I  certainly  leave  that  sort  of  thing  to  you,"  said 
Cathie,  "  and  I  wish  you'd  leave  it  alone." 

Elizabeth  drew  a  vague  diagram  of  curves  and 
straight  lines,  signifying  nothing,  with  the  point  of 
her  sunshade  in  the  sand. 

"  Lucia  has  no  delicacy,"  she  announced.  "  In  our 
day,  Catherine,  if  either  of  us  had  heard  from  a 
strange  peer,  we  should  instantly  have  taken  the  letter 
to  our  mother.  At  least  I  should,  though  I  have  my 
doubts  about  you  in  the  light  of  this." 

1 '  But  we  never  did  hear  from  a  strange  peer, ' '  said 
Catherine. 

"  That  is  quite  immaterial.  I  gather  that  you  will 
make  no  efforts  to  find  out  what  Lord  Brayton  writes 
to  Lucia  about?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will  not.  If  Lucia  thinks  good,  she 
will  tell  us." 

' '  Catherine,  you  have  neither  strength  of  character 
nor  sense  of  duty, ' '  said  her  sister.  ' '  Let  us  get  back 
to  lunch,  though  I  am  sure  it  is  little  appetite  I  bring 


148  THE    CLIMBER 

to  it.    I  have  been  much  agitated.    I  should  not  wonder 
if  this  threw  me  back  for  a  week." 

What  exactly  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  to  be  thrown  back 
from  was  not  completely  clear,  and  Catherine  forbore 
to  ask.  She  herself  was  delightfully  excited  about 
Lucia 's  letter,  and  longed  ia  a  different  spirit,  but  with 
even  greater  intensity  than  Elizabeth  longed,  to  know 
more.  Though  she  would  not  have  dreamed  of  doing 
what  Elizabeth  had  done  and  looked  over  the  letter, 
she  could  not  but  be  thrilled  with  the  fact  that  there 
were  four  pages.  "  So  it  must  be  about  something." 
she  thought,  knowing  the  difficulty  of  making  letters 
that  were  about  nothing  extend  to  three.  Perhaps 
Lucia  would  tell  her;  Lucia  and  she  were  so  very 
friendly,  and  the  girl  often  talked  to  her  confidentially. 
Yet  she  had  hardly  ever  said  anything  about  Lord 
Brayton,  and  Cathie  felt  in  her  bones — like  rheuma- 
tism— that  there  was  something  to  tell.  And  it  was 
partly  because  she  wanted  to  know  so  much  that  she 
felt  it  utterly  impossible  to  ask  her. 

Sea  View  was  a  house  in  a  row  of  sounding  titles. 
On  one  side  of  them  was  Blenheim,  on  the  other  Bal- 
moral, while  further  down  were  Engadine,  Chatsworth, 
and  the  houses  of  Devonshire  and  Stafford.  Six 
rather  steep  steps  led  up  from  a  small  clanging  gate 
to  the  front  door,  which  had  panels  of  stained  glass  in 
it.  On  one  side  was  the  drawing-room,  which  Eliza- 
beth had  made  quite  homey  with  a  quantity  of  woollen 
head-rests,  here  really  necessary,  since  without  them 
the  person  who  reclined  on  the  American-cloth  sofa 
would  have  instantly  slid  off  it  on  to  the  floor.  The 
mantelpiece  was  of  the  type  known  as  handsome,  and 


THE    CLIMBER  149 

had  imitation  malachite  plaques  opulently  let  into  a 
smooth  hard  substance  that  might  easily  be  mistaken 
for  black  marble.  Tiles  of  bright  floral  design  framed 
the  grate,  which  was  filled  with  ribbons  of  polychro- 
matic paper.  In  the  bow-window,  rather  obstructing 
the  view  out,  but  equally  obstructing  the  view  of  those 
without  who  wished  to  look  in,  was  a  marine  telescope 
on  three  brass  legs,  which  Aunt  Elizabeth  vaguely  felt 
should  have  its  cap  permanently  put  on  to  it  because 
of  the  bathers.  It  was  true  that  you  need  not  look  at 
the  bathers,  but  if  you  did  they  would  appear  so  un- 
pleasantly near.  A  bookcase  contained  apparently 
centuries  of  the  Monthly  Packet  bound  in  shiny  brown 
calico,  and,  indeed,  the  whole  house  seemed  to  be  rather 
full  of  hard  and  slippery  furniture,  oilcloth  taking  the 
place  of  carpets  on  the  stairs,  and  the  wall-paper  being 
an  imitation  of  marble  that  was  otherwise  happily  un- 
known. A  barometer  and  an  umbrella  stand  naturally 
stood  in  the  hall,  the  former  of  a  pessimistic  nature 
that  silently  stuck  to  the  fact  that  it  was  "  stormy." 
But  the  whole  house  was,  except  when  the  kitchen  door 
had  been  left  open,  redolent  of  the  freshness  of  the 
sea,  and  Lucia,  who  had  again  secured  a  bedroom  at 
the  very  top  of  the  house,  lived  as  in  the  deck  cabin 
of  a  ship. 

All  these  details  of  the  place  had  a  certain  relevance 
with  regard  to  the  letter  that  Lucia  had  received,  and 
which  she  thought  over  as  she  made  herself  tidy.  For 
Lord  Brayton,  it  appeared,  before  going  to  Scotland 
was  to  spend  a  few  days  at  a  house  near  Littlestone, 
and  he  asked  leave  to  come  over  some  afternoon.  He 
named  the  date  when  he  would  be  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, which  was  unfortunately  during  the  week  that 


150  THE   CLIMBER 

Maud  would  be  staying  at  Sea  View.  And  in  any  case, 
whether  Maud  was  there  or  not,  she  could  with  diffi- 
culty picture  herself  talking  to  him  as  he  sat  on  the 
American-cloth  sofa,  facing  the  malachite  of  the  man- 
telpiece. 

But  this  latter  consideration  did  not  long  occupy 
her.  It  was  true  that  she  would  have  chosen  not  to  be 
found  in  these  hopeless  surroundings,  but  if  he  came 
she  could  arrange  that  they  should  all  have  tea  on  the 
beach,  or  do  something  that  should  detach  him  from 
the  house;  but  Lucia  was  not  yet  quite  sure  that  it 
was  better  that  he^  should  come.  She  did  not  exactly 
fear  Maud  as  a  rival,  but  she  must  either  tell  him  that 
Maud  would  be  here,  and  Maud  that  he  was  coming, 
or  else — somehow  or  other — Maud  must  know  nothing 
whatever  about  it.  For  though  Lucia  had  never  for  a 
moment  gone  back  on  her  original  intention  as  to  cut- 
ting Maud  out,  if  possible,  she  felt  that  the  moment 
for  telling  Maud  about  her  growing  friendship  with 
this  man  would  be  a  rather  difficult  one.  Indeed,  she 
had  to  decide  at  once  whether  to  tell  Maud  about  it, 
before  things  got  further,  or  not  to  tell  her  till  she 
herself  had  done  her  best,  and  succeeded  or  failed. 
Failure,  however,  she  did  not  contemplate.  Then  it 
struck  her  that  his  request  to  come  over  was  rather 
pointed,  and  that  she  could  really  invent  no  valid  ex- 
cuse why  he  should  not.  But  if,  so  to  speak,  any 
11  good  "  were  to  come  of  his  visit,  he  must  be  given 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  her  alone.  That  was  prac- 
tically impossible  if  her  aunts  and  Maud  were  in  the 
house. 

Then  she  saw  her  whole  plan  illuminated  and  com- 
plete from  end  to  end.  It  was  rather  a  hazardous  one, 


THE   CLIMBER  151 

but  she  was  prepared  to  take  risks.  She  wrote  a 
charming  little  note  to  him,  suggesting  that  he  should 
come  over  on  one  of  the  dates  that  he  had  mentioned, 
found  a  train  in  a  local  time  table  that  would  bring 
him  to  Littlestone  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  and 
another  one  that  would  take  him  away  about  six. 
Then,  since  fine  weather  was  essential  to  her  plan,  she 
almost  prayed  for  fine  weather,  posted  her  note  at  the 
pillar  box  outside  the  house,  and  joined  her  aunts 
at  lunch.  She  told  them  many  things  Lord  Brayton 
had  said  in  his  note,  a  few  he  had  not,  concern- 
ing the  weather  at  Brixham,  and  somehow  omitted 
to  mention  that  he  had  asked  leave  to  visit  them 
the  week  after  next,  or  that  she  had  begged  him  to 
do  so. 

Maud  arrived  some  ten  days  after  this,  and  received 
the  warmest  of  welcomes  from  Lucia. 

"  Ah!  it's  too,  too  splendid,"  she  said,  "  and,  if 
you  think,  now  that  I've  got  you  here,  that  I  am  going 
to  let  you  go  under  a  fortnight,  you  are  quite,  quite 
mistaken.  Yes,  the  busman  will  take  all  your  things 
to  the  house — won't  you,  William? — and  you  and  I 
will  go  straight  off  to  the  beach  till  tea-time.  It's  the 
biggest,  emptiest  beach  you  ever  saw;  there's  nothing 
there  at  all  but  the  sea,  lying  like  some  great,  kind 
animal.  And  the  house  is  quite  the  most  ridiculous 
you  ever  saw,  and  you  slide  off  every  chair  if  you  are 
not  careful,  and  Aunt  Cathie  wades,  isn't  it  heavenly 
of  her!  Oh,  you've  never  seen  her,  have  you?  so  you 
can't  yet  grasp  how  heavenly  it  is;  and  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth played  patience  on  the  beach  yesterday,  and  a 
gust  of  wind  came,  and  all  the  cards  rose  up  like  at  the 


152  THE    CLIMBER 

end  of  '  Alice  in  Wonderland. '  Now  you  may  talk  for 
one  minute,  and  then  I  shall  begin  again." 

The  arrears  of  general  events  were  soon  cleared  off, 
and  after  a  stroll  along  the  beach  the  two  sat  down  on 
the  hot,  dry  sand,  and  the  talk  became  more  intimate. 

"  Yes,  I  turned  over  a  new  leaf  soon  after  I  went 
down  to  Brixham, ' '  said  Lucia,  ' '  and  it  all  became 
so  much  pleasanter.  But  you  see,  you  do  naturally 
what  I  had  to  make  a  great  effort  to  do. ' ' 

Maud's  grey,  grave  eyes  looked  with  admiring  de- 
votion at  Lucia,  as  she  sat  with  legs  crossed,  like  some 
graceful  boy,  pouring  the  dry  sand  through  her  fingers 
in  the  fashion  of  an  hour-glass. 

"  And  what's  that?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  know.  You  are  naturally  unselfish,  and  you 
don 't  have  to  think  about  other  people  and  their  wants 
and  desires.  The  thinking  does  itself  with  you,  and 
you  just  go  and  do  the  things.  Now,  I  have  first  of  all 
to  make  myself  think,  and  then  make  myself  do  the 
things.  You  are  nice  inside,  as  I  told  you  before,  and 
I  am  not.  People  can't  help  loving  you;  but  I  have 
to  go  through  all  my  tricks  before  they  love  me.  Even 
then  they  don't  always." 

Maud  laughed. 

"  Oh,  Lucia,  what  dreadful  nonsense  you  talk!  "  she 
said.  "  You  whom  everybody  has  fought  for,  so  to 
speak,  and  done  their  best  to  spoil!  And  they  haven't 
succeeded  one  atom.  Even  I  haven't  succeeded  in 
spoiling  you." 

Lucia  let  her  hands  go  wide,  dropping  the  sand  that 
was  in  them. 

"  There  was  nothing  to  spoil,"  she  said  with  a  sud- 
den earnestness.  "  You  can't  spoil  anything  unless 


THE   CLIMBER  153 

it  is  good  to  begin  with.  I  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  as 
I  said,  but  why  did  I  do  that?  Simply  and  solely, 
Maud,  that  I  might  have  a  more  comfortable  time.  I 
want  people  to  love  me,  but  why?  Because  then  they 
will  be  nice  to  me,  and  give  me  what  I  want.  That's 
me — not  pleasant,  but  me." 

"  Ah!  you  are  mixing  up  two  words  which  haven't 
anything  to  do  with  each  other,"  said  Maud.  "  We 
all  find  it  convenient  to  be  liked,  because  that  does 
make  things  pleasant.  But  love  is  quite  a  different 
matter." 

Lucia  sat  quite  silent  a  moment.  The  simplicity  and 
certainty  of  what  Maud  said  struck  some  chord  within 
her  of  which  she  was  but  seldom  conscious.  Just  for 
these  few  seconds  she  felt  on  a  plane  immeasurably 
low  compared  to  her  friend :  it  was  as  if  some  unquiet 
wind  was  conscious  for  a  moment  of  the  stillness  of 
the  stars.  Then  Maud  spoke  again  in  that  cool,  slow 
voice  that  so  admirably  expressed  her. 

"  How  wilful  you  are  sometimes,  dear  Lucia!  "  she 
said;  "  as  now,  when  for  some  reason  you  seem  to 
want  to  make  yourself  out  so  mean  and  unfeeling.  Is 
it  not  a  good  thing  that  I  see  through  you?  You  know 
the  difference  quite  well.  If  one  just  likes  a  person, 
and  there  is  a  piece  of  pleasure  going  about,  why,  I 
am  afraid  one  grabs  it  very  often,  and  doesn't  mind 
much  whether  the  other  person  has  to  go  without  it. 
But  if  you  love  anybody,  you  grab  the  pleasure  in  or- 
der to  give  it  to  the  person  you  love.  And  the  fact 
that  you  deprive  yourself  of  it  is  just  what  makes 
the  giving  it  away  so  delightful.  I  daresay  that  is  self- 
ish in  its  way,  too;  giving  it  is  to  give  yourself  the 
highest  possible  enjoyment.  You  delight  in  the  cost 


154  THE   CLIMBER 

of  it.  Dear  me,  what  very  commonplace  sentiments! 
I  apologize." 

Maud,  always  slow  with  her  tongue,  always  reticent 
about  what  she  felt  keenly,  stopped  abruptly.  She  saw 
that  something  in  what  she  said  had  affected  Lucia — 
that  her  words,  commonplace  as  they  seemed  to  her,  put 
something  difficult  before  her  friend.  What  it  was  she 
scarcely  asked  herself ;  far  less  did  she  dream  of  asking 
Lucia. 

But  poor  Lucia — she  saw  the  idea  like  a  view  of  dis- 
tant mountains,  intolerably  far,  and  intolerably  above 
her.  And  her  next  feeling  was  one  of  resentment  and 
rebellion  at  the  presentation  of  what  was  but  barely 
intelligible  to  her.  She  felt  impatient  with  it,  as  a  man 
feels  impatient  at  some  sentence  spoken  to  him  in  a 
foreign  tongue,  the  meaning  of  which  he  but  dimly  con- 
jectures. And  this  impatience  quenched  the  momen- 
tary impulse  she  had  felt  to  tell  Maud,  anyhow,  what 
she  had  done,  what  she  was  doing,  what  she  intended 
to  do.  And  the  impulse  fainter  than  this — to  abandon 
her  design,  or  rather  to  think  about  abandoning  it — 
went  out  like  a  candle  in  a  high  wind;  a  puff,  and  it 
was  dark  night  again. 

She  scooped  up  the  dry,  hot  sand  and  once  more  let 
it  trickle  through  her  fingers. 

"  Oh,  one  way  of  love  and  another  way  of  love,  as 
Browning  tells  us,"  she  said  quickly,  "  and  another, 
and  yet  another.  We're  all  different  and  all  our  ways 
of  love  are  different,  just  as  our  manner  of  drinking 
our  tea  is  different,  which  reminds  me  that  it  must  be 
tea-time.  Wouldn  't  it  be  dull  if  we  were  all  alike  f  You 
want  to  love  to  slow  music,  you  know,  and  I  want  to  love 
to — to  a  cake-walk." 


THE    CLIMBER  155 

She  paused  just  a  moment,  and  became  thoroughly 
content  with  herself ;  distant  mountains  were  gone,  and 
there  was  no  far-off  starlight  any  more. 

"  Oh,  Maud!  "  she  said,  getting  up,  "  and  what  of 
It — Him?  LordBrayton?  I  Ve  seen  him  again,  by  the 
way.  Somebody  died,  and  he  is  Aunt  Cathie's  land- 
lord, and  I  think  he 's  delightful.  He  came  to  lunch  one 
day,  and  we  talked  about  Aims  and  Objects  of  Exist- 
ence— all  with  enormous  capital  letters.  Do  you  still 
want  to  grab  pleasures,  and  give  them  him?  What 
complications  in  your  plan !  If  there's  a  pleasure  lying 
about  and  you  grab  it,  and  he  wants  it  rather,  and  I 
want  it  rather  more,  to  which  of  us  will  you  give  it  ?  If 
you  say  you  will  give  it  him,  I  shall  never  speak  to  you 
again. ' ' 

Intimate  as  Maud  was  with  Lucia,  she  felt  she  could 
not  explain. 

'  *  You  don 't  understand, ' '  she  said  quietly.  '  *  Things 
don't  happen  like  that." 

Again  Lucia  felt  the  degradation  of  her  level,  and 
again  that  made  her  impatient  and  incredulous  of  the 
reality  of  the  other  level.  She  spoke  daringly,  but  with 
calculation. 

I  i  But  I  really  want  to  know, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Oh,  Maud ! 
look  at  that  fishing  boat  with  a  red  sail  against  the  grey 
of  the  sea.    Suppose  Lord  Brayton  liked  me  better  than 
you,  would  you  ever  forgive  me?  " 

The  daring  of  this  was  justified.  To  Maud's  trans- 
parent mind  the  case  necessarily  became  a  purely  imag- 
inary one,  otherwise  Lucia  could  never  have  spoken  it. 

II  But,  of  course,  I  should  want  both  of  you  to  get 
what  you  wanted  most, ' '  she  said.    * '  And  as  for  forgiv- 
ing, you  can't  forgive  or  not  forgive  a  thing  as  big  as 


156  THE   CLIMBER 

love.  It  is  destiny,  too.  It  must  happen  or  not  happen, 
independently  of  us.  You  might  as  well  quarrel  with 
the  sun  for  rising  in  the  morning. ' ' 

Lucia  laughed. 

1 1  Well,  I  do  if  it  wakes  me  up, ' '  she  said. 

Maud  had  not  yet  met  Lucia's  aunts,  but  within  a 
couple  of  days  she  was  a  dweller  in  the  innermost  places 
of  Aunt  Cathie 's  heart,  partly  by  virtue  of  her  devotion 
to  Lucia,  partly  by  the  charm  of  her  own  simplicity  and 
goodness.  By  virtue  of  that  she  at  once  pierced 
through  Aunt  Cathie's  reticence  and  gruffness.  She 
easily  divined  what  tenderness  and  softness  lay  be- 
neath that  marvellously  horny  shell,  knowing  in  herself 
how  difficult  it  was  to  her  to  put  into  words  anything 
that  was  deeply  felt.  And  Aunt  Cathie,  she  saw  at  once, 
had  the  same  barrier  in  her  speech,  that  made  words 
and  feelings  of  kindness  and  sympathy  rebound,  so  to 
speak,  from  it  and  stun  themselves.  These  limitations, 
in  fact,  of  the  two  were  a  bond  between  them,  even  as 
was  their  essential  kindness,  and  in  each  heart  was  the 
same  presiding  goddess,  Lucia. 

The  presiding  goddess  had  refused  to  come  out  this 
morning  till  she  had  written  her  letters  to  her  three 
particular  friends  at  Brixham,  but  in  obedience  to  her 
suggestion,  Aunt  Cathie  had  taken  Maud  out  to  sit  and 
stroll  on  the  beach,  till  the  bathing  hour  of  noon.  Even 
in  these  two  days  there  had  been  conferred  on  Cathie 
the  degree  of  "  aunt  "  to  Maud  also,  and  this  fact  was 
pathetically  precious  to  her,  for  it  had  come  naturally, 
involuntarily.  Only  yesterday  Maud  had  begun  a  sen- 
tence, "  Oh,  Aunt  Cathie,"  by  accident,  apologizing  im- 
mediately, and  saying  that  Lucia  had  so  often  called 
her  Aunt  Cathie  that  the  phrase  had  escaped  without 


THE    CLIMBER 

thought.  Aunt  Cathie  had  flushed  a  little  and  killed  a 
wasp  on  the  window  with  extraordinary  truculence  be- 
fore she  replied.  Then  she  said:  "  Well,  you  can't  go 
back  now.  I  'm  your  aunt,  Maud. ' ' 

So  aunt  and  niece  sat  together  on  the  shore,  each 
more  easily  expansive  to  the  other  than  to  anyone  else, 
though  their  friendship  was  of  so  short  duration,  if 
measured  by  the  misleading  scale  of  hours.  The  sea  was 
very  far  out,  for  the  tide  was  low,  and  the  glory  of  the 
shining  sand  stretched  at  their  feet.  A  few  red  sails 
struggled  seaward,  for  the  wind  was  northerly ;  a  little 
way  off,  inside  the  bathing  tent,  Elizabeth  was  busy 
with  head-rests. 

"  That's  Lucia  all  over,"  said  Cathie  suddenly. 
"  She  can't  enjoy  herself  till  she  has  remembered  other 
people.  Did  I  tell  you  about  the  tennis,  Maud?" 

"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Well,  she  and  I  used  to  play  lawn-tennis.  I  thought 
it  would  amuse  her.  You  Ve  never  seen  me  play  lawn- 
tennis.  I  throw  the  ball  up  and  can't  hit  it,  you  know, 
heaps  of  times.  So  Lucia  and  I  played.  Then  the  other 
day  I  saw  her  playing  at  some  garden  party.  It  was 
quite  different :  people  hit  the  ball :  it  went  backwards 
and  forwards.  She  must  have  thought  me  mad.  But 
she  appeared  to  enjoy  it,  just  because  of  that — because 
she  thought  I  was  liking  it.  She  never  let  me  see  what 
a  bore  it  must  have  been." 

* '  Dear  Aunt  Cathie !  ' '  said  Maud,  ' '  but  it  was  just 
as  nice  of  you  to  do  it.  It  bored  you  just  as  much,  you 
know. ' ' 

1 1  Didn  't  bore  me  at  all ;  I  loved  it, ' '  said  Aunt  Cathie, 
"  for  I  thought  Lucia  was  enjoying  it.  Only  now  I 
know  she  can't  have  been." 


158  THE   CLIMBER 

Aunt  Cathie  took  off  her  spectacles  and  wiped  them. 
"  There's  a  poem  somewhere,"  she  said,  "  about  some- 
body being  a  sunbeam.  I've  often  looked  for  it  in  six 
volumes  of  selections  which  I've  got  at  home,  but  I 
can't  find  it.  Lucia's  that;  she  does  it  as  easily  as  a 
sunbeam,  too;  she  just  shines.  I  wish  I  could  put  my 
hand  on  it — Longfellow,  perhaps,  or  Mrs.  Hemans.  She 
—she  confides  in  me,  too, ' '  went  on  Aunt  Cathie  a  little 
tremulously.  "  She  tells  me  if  she  is  in  a  hole,  and 
once,  Maud — once  I  managed  to  help  her  out  of  one.  I 
did  enjoy  it.  You  see,  when  you  get  old  like  me  and 
Elizabeth  " — she  glanced  nervously  round — "  though, 
of  course,  I'm  much  older  than  Elizabeth,  you  seem  to 
lose  something.  You  are  there,  just  the  same,  but  peo- 
ple think  it 's  only  an  old  woman  who  is  there.  And  so 
very  naturally  they  don't  take  much  notice.  It's  that 
that  Lucia  does:  she  takes  notice  of  us — oh,  it's  more 
than  that — she  loves  me,  I  think;  she  makes  a  girl  of 
me.  I — I  can't  tell  you  what  that  is  to  old  people.  We 
talk  French,  we  sketch,  though  Lucia  doesn't  think 
much  of  the  touches ;  we  have  little  conspiracies.  And 
now,  dear,  you've  come,  too.  You  let  me  talk  to  you 
like  this,  and  make  me  able  to  talk." 

Aunt  Cathie  blew  her  nose  very  violently. 

"  So  bless  you,  dear,"  she  said.  "I'm  a  little 
cramped  with  sitting." 

A  voice  came  from  the  bathing  tent. 

"  The  time,  please,  Catherine!  "  it  said. 

Aunt  Catherine  fished  up  the  warming-pan 
watch. 

"  Just  on  twelve,"  she  called  back. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  Elizabeth  appeared  at 
the  tent  door. 


THE    CLIMBER  159 

"  Then  Lucia  will  be  wanting  the  tent,"  she  ob- 
served, "  and  I  have  just  got  into  my  stitch." 

' '  Get  into  it  again, ' '  said  Cathie. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  moved  a  little  away. 

11  I  had  no  intention  of  interrupting,"  she  said.  "  If 
I  sit  in  the  shadow  of  the  tent  at  the  far  side,  I  trust  I 
shall  disturb  nobody." 

There  was  a  short  pause  in  the  conversation  of  the 
others. 

"  What  hole  did  you  help  her  out  of !  "  asked  Maud 
at  length.  "  Lucia  hasn't  told  me,  I  think." 

"  Well  then,  dear,  I  mustn't,"  said  Cathie.  "It's 
Lucia's  secret.  I  can  only  tell  you  she  left  cards,  mine 
and  Elizabeth's,  too,  on  somebody  one  shouldn't  have 
thought  of  calling  on. ' ' 

"  Do  you  mean    the  person  wasn't  respectable?  ' 
asked  Maud. 

"  Good  gracious,  no !  We  weren't,  so  to  speak.  So  I 
said  I  had  done  it,  because  he  came  to  call  on  us,  without 
our  having  called,  so  far  as  Elizabeth  knew.  Don't  ask 
me  more.  Change  the  subject.  It's  Lucia's  and  my 
secret.  You're  not  in  it  this  time.  Ha!  We're  rivals. 
I've  won." 

Aunt  Cathie  gave  vent  to  an  extraordinary  sort  of 
crow,  of  which  the  intention  was  humorous,  but  which 
had  a  serious  foundation.  She  rejoiced  that  Lucia  had 
not  told  Maud  their  secret,  and  could  not  help  crowing. 
Lucia  had  told  her  what  she  had  not  told  to  her  best 
friend.  It  was  true  that  she  had  told  Aunt  Cathie  about 
it  (and  had  made  no  secret  of  that)  because  Aunt 
Cathie  could  help  her.  But  in  this  hour  of  triumph  that 
was  forgotten.  Then  the  dear  old  soul,  still  pining  for 
love  and  affection,  laid  a  hand  on  Maud's  arm. 


160  THE    CLIMBER 

"  Old  folks  are  greedy,"  she  said.  "  Can't  you  tell 
me  something  you  haven't  told  Lucia f  I  should  chuckle 
over  Lucia,  too,  then!  'J 

Maud  sat  up  and  devoted  a  few  moments  to  honest 
reflection. 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I 
have  told  Lucia  all  I  have  to  tell.  I'm  so  sorry." 

That  concession  was  something.  Aunt  Cathie  felt 
another  year  or  two  younger. 

Two  days  after  this  Lucia  announced  a  plan,  or  in 
other  words,  a  picnic.  To-morrow  was  going  to  be  the 
second  Thursday  in  September,  when  there  was  to  be  an 
old  English  autumn  fair  at  Trew.  Trew  was  ten  miles 
off,  but  one  carriage  would  hold  them  all,  and  the  plan 
was  a  surprise.  She  had  engaged  a  carriage  to  be  at 
Sea  View  by  eleven  next  day —  this  was  her  * '  treat  ' ' — 
and  they  would  all  go  over  and  lunch  at  Trew,  see  the 
old  English  fair,  and  drive  back  in  the  evening.  In 
fact,  it  was  no  use  anybody  saying  she  wouldn't  go :  she 
had  set  her  heart  on  this,  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  needn't 
look  bankrupt,  because  she  hadn't  understood,  for  the 
carriage  was  Lucia's,  and  she  was  going  to  take  them 
for  a  nice  drive.  She  had  read  the  account  of  the  pro- 
jected fair  to  them  all  two  days  before;  it  was  a  sort  of 
pagan  harvest  festival,  full  of  folk-lore,  and  was  tre- 
mendously picturesque.  At  eleven  to-morrow  then, 
please,  and  she  and  Maud  would  bathe  before  breakfast. 

Aunt  Cathie  was  intensely  discouraging,  but  simply 
because  she  was  so  touched. 

' '  Frightful  extravagance, ' '  she  said.  "  Go  by  train 
and  walk  at  the  other  end." 

11  And  who  gave  me  a  set  of  tennis  balls?  "  said 


THE    CLIMBER  161 

Lucia  gently.  "  And  who  lengthened  the  lawnf  And 
who  got  me  out  of  an  awful  hole?  And  who  is  Aunt 
Cathie?  " 

This  passed  under  cover  of  somewhat  louder  objec- 
tions from  Elizabeth.  She  supposed  they  would  have  to 
take  cold  lunch  with  them,  and  where  were  they  to  have 
tea?  Cathie,  as  was  her  nature,  found  no  reply  to 
Lucia's  whispers,  and  answered  Elizabeth  instead. 

"  It's  cold  lunch,  anyhow,"  she  remarked.  "  So  we 
take  it.  Tea,  too.  Such  things  as  tea-baskets.  I've  got 
one.  Great  fun ;  thanks,  Lucia.  I  wanted  to  see  it.  So 
does  Elizabeth." 

"  I  had  meant  to  work  to-morrow,"  said  Elizabeth, 
' '  but  I  can  do  more  the  day  after  and  make  up  for  lost 
time.  I  hope  you  beat  the  man  down,  Lucia,  and  said 
you  would  only  give  him  half  of  what  he  asked.  I  never 
heard  of  taking  a  carriage  for  the  day!  r 

Lucia  clapped  her  hands. 

"  No  questions  allowed,"  she  cried.  "  You  get  into 
my  carriage  at  eleven.  You  get  out  again  about  eight 
in  the  evening.  Dear  Aunt  Elizabeth,  I  hope  it  will  be 
amusing.  You  shall  take  your  woolwork  with  you,  if 
you  like,  and  I  will  hold  skeins  from  the  seat  opposite. ' ' 

With  this  the  subject  was  dismissed.  Aunt  Cathie, 
bursting  with  tenderness,  gave  Lucia  an  enormous 
helping  of  cold  lamb  and  piled  salad  on  her  plate. 

But  Lucia  hardly  tasted  these  things. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

T  UCIA  sat  up  in  bed  on  hearing  the  noise  of  the  re- 
•*— '  treating  wheels  of  the  carriage,  and  cast  the 
clothes  from  her.  The  plan  had  gone  quite  excellently 
up  till  now,  and  under  the  same  inspiring  hand  it  would 
no  doubt  continue  to  prosper.  Aunt  Cathie  and  Maud, 
of  course,  had  come  tip-toeing  into  her  bedroom  to  ask 
how  she  was,  and  to  suggest  putting  off  the  expedition, 
and  she  had  had  a  perfectly  sound  reply.  The  expedi- 
tion could  not  be  put  off,  since  the  old  English  fair  was 
on  this  day  and  no  other,  and  as  for  herself,  she  begged 
nobody  to  worry.  It  was  just  a  headache :  quite  horrid, 
but  the  only  plan  was  to  let  her  lie  quiet,  to  turn  her 
face  to  the  wall,  like  Hezekiah,  and  wait  till  it  was  bet- 
ter. It  was  a  bore ;  oh  yes,  a  dreadful,  dreadful  bore, 
and  it  could  not  have  come  on  a  more  inconvenient  day, 
but  as  it  was  there,  there  it  was,  and  the  thought  of  any- 
body waiting  behind  and  not  going  to  Trew  made  it  feel 
worse.  They  must  all  go  and  enjoy  themselves,  and  tell 
her  about  it  in  the  evening.  Probably  her  head  would  be 
all  right  by  then.  She  only  insisted  that  they  should  all 
go,  and  not  attempt  to  return  early  in  order  to  keep  her 
company.  When  her  head  was  like  this  she  did  not 
want  company.  She  just  wanted  to  shut  her  eyes,  and 
wait  till  it  was  better.  Yes ;  she  thought  it  was  coming 
on  last  night,  when  she  did  not  want  any  dinner.  "  No, 
darling  Aunt  Cathie,  if  you  talk  of  lunch,"  she  said,  "  I 
shall  be  sick.  Please  just  leave  me  alone.  I  am  so  sorry, 

163 


THE    CLIMBER  163 

for  being  so  unfriendly,  but  I  only  want  to  lie  still.  OhT 
and  I  do  hope  you  will  have  a  nice  day.  Good-bye!  " 

So  before  very  long  the  carriage  wheels  crunched  the 
ground,  and  Lucia  sat  up.  Then  she  got  out  of  bed  and 
bolted  her  door,  in  case  of  surprises.  It  was  all  dread- 
fully mean  and  infinitesimal,  but  she  never  neglected 
details.  Then  she  put  on  a  dressing-gown,  ate  the 
breakfast  she  had  not  yet  touched,  and  carefully  pulled 
a  chair  out  on  her  balcony,  where,  under  the  sunblinds, 
she  could  sit  unobserved. 

By  midday  (this  was  part  of  her  plan)  she  felt  rather 
better,  and  lunched  downstairs.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
she  was  extremely  hungry,  and  it  required  all  her  self- 
control  not  to  eat  largely.  But  she  exercised  it,  left  the 
greater  part  of  her  cold  lamb  on  her  plate,  and  cut  and 
swallowed  a  very  large  slice  of  cheese,  during  the  inter- 
val when  stewed  plums  were  left  with  her.  Then,  when 
her  coffee  came  in,  she  announced  she  was  much,  much 
better,  and  soon  after  went  ostentatiously  out  of  the 
house.  It  was  all  well  done;  obviously  she  ate  little 
lamb;  obviously  she  left  the  stewed  plums  alone 
(though  certainly  there  were  many  stones  in  the  small 
flower-bed  below  the  window)  and  nobody  knew  of  the 
cheese,  which  had  been  on  the  sideboard,  and  had  not 
even  been  offered  her. 

She  took  up  her  place  on  the  beach  just  in  front  of  the 
house.  That  was  not  the  delectable  sandy  beach  to  the 
east,  and  it  consisted  of  large  round  stones,  and  a  cloak 
was  necessary  to  make  sitting  on  it  possible.  She  took 
with  her  the  later  edition  of  Omar  Khayyam,  sat  with 
her  back  to  the  houses,  and  her  face  to  the  sea,  and 
smoked  two  cigarettes,  the  stumps  of  which  she  threw 
far  away  from  her.  Then,  from  not  far  off,  she  heard 


164  THE    CLIMBER 

the  whistle  of  a  train,  and,  a  minute  or  so  afterwards, 
saw  a  solitary  figure  coming  straight  down  the  road 
from  the  station  to  the  beach.  Just  on  his  left  was  Sea 
View;  just  in  front  of  Sea  View  was  herself. 

The  day  was  dry  and  windless  and  the  steps  of  this 
solitary  passenger  were  defined.  She  never  looked 
round,  but  heard  them  pause  at  the  corner,  and  then 
come  straight  on.  From  the  pause  (and  the  instruc- 
tions in  her  letter)  it  was  clear  that  he  knew  where  Sea 
View  was,  from  the  pause  and  the  advancing  steps  it 
was  clear  that  he  had  seen  her. 

The  large  round  stones  slipped  and  grated  below  his 
foot :  she  heard  all  that.  Then,  when  the  slipping  and 
the  grating  were  close  at  hand,  she  turned  lazily  as  if  to 
see  the  stranger  who  was  passing.  Then  she  got  up 
quickly,  and  Omar  fell  face  downward. 

"  Lord  Bray  ton!  "  she  said,  in  excellent  surprise. 
"  How  are  you?  But — but  to-day  is  Thursday,  is  it 
not?  I — I  expected  you — but  how  nice  to  see  you !  How 
quick  of  you  to  notice  me !  I  had  just  come  out  from 
lunch.  Thursday,  yes,  Thursday,  of  course. ' ' 

There  was  an  undercurrent  of  embarrassment  in  her 
tone,  that  he  could  scarcely  miss. 

"  But  it  was  Thursday  you  said?  "  he  asked. 

Lucia  had  got  up,  to  shake  hands  with  him.  Then, 
still  embarrassed,  she  suddenly  burst  into  a  peal  of 
laughter. 

"  Somehow,  by  your  mistake  or  mine,"  she  said, 
"  and  it  doesn't  really  matter  whose  it  is,  the  most  aw- 
ful thing  has  happened  that  ever  happened.  No  doubt 
it  was  mine,  but  I  thought  I  suggested  Friday.  And  to- 
day, Thursday,  the  state  of  affairs  is  this :  We  were  all 
going  on  a  picnic  to  Trew  this  morning,  and  I  had  a 


THE    CLIMBER  165 

headache — but  a  headache — and  the  others,  all  of  them, 
went  without  me.  I  lay  in  bed  all  morning;  felt  better 
and  came  on  to  the  beach." 

Lucia  seemed  to  abandon  herself  to  these  embarrass- 
ing reflections  for  a  moment,  then  she  pulled  herself 
together,  and  entirely  cast  them  off. 

' '  But  supposing  I  hadn  't  had  a  headache,  supposing 
I  had  gone  with  the  others,  it  would  have  been  even 
worse.  You  would  have  come  here  and  found  nobody 
at  all.  What  would  you  have  thought  of  me?  " 

11  That  you  had  made  a  mistake  merely,"  he  said. 
* '  But  I  should  have  been  very  sorry  for  the  results  of 
that  mistake." 

He  laid  just  the  faintest  stress  on  * '  that, ' '  enough  to 
make  the  inference  clear. 

She  burst  out  with  sudden  delicious  laughter  again. 
'  *  I  think  it  would  kill  Aunt  Elizabeth  if  she  knew, ' '  she 
faltered  between  her  ripples  of  laughter.  * '  She  would 
die  of  the  infamy  of  it.  So  we  must  never  say  you  have 
been.  But  let  us  settle  whose  mistake  it  was ;  I  promise 
to  forgive  you  if  it  proves  to  be  yours,  and  you  must  try 
to  forgive  me  if  it  has  been  mine.  Surely  I  said  Friday. 
Ah!  your  engagement  book  is  no  evidence;  you  may 
have  put  it  down  wrong. ' ' 

In  point  of  fact,  he  had  taken  his  engagement  book 
out  of  his  pocket.  But  ihat  was  only  to  expedite  his 
search,  and  immediately  he  produced  Lucia's  note  to 
him.  There  was  Thursday,  as  plain  as  need  be. 

"  Condemned!  "  she  said,  "  without  any  recommen- 
dation to  mercy.-  But  I  am  so  sorry,  Lord  Brayton. 
Let  me  say  that  once  for  all.  I  don't  desire,  anyhow,  to 
wriggle  out  of  it.  Besides,  there  is  no  way  of  escape. 
Now  be  kind,  please.  No ;  I  know  what  you  are  think- 


166  THE   CLIMBER 

ing  of — there  isn't  a  train  back  before  the  six  some- 
thing, and  even  if  there  was  it  would  be  very  rude  of 
you  to  go  by  it." 

Lucia's  swift  mind  made  a  sudden  excursion  round 
all  the  angles  of  her  scheme.  All  were  safe  except  one. 
She  must  make  it  appear  to  him  that  her  aunts  expected 
him  to-morrow,  and  at  the  same  time  he  must  not  come. 

* '  Ah !  and  one  more  thing, ' '  she  said,  * '  you  must 
send  me  a  telegram,  please,  to-morrow  morning,  saying 
you  can't  come  owing  to  some  brilliant  excuse  which 
you  will  invent.  You  see,  we  thought  it  was  to-mor- 
row, owing  to  my  mistake. ' ' 

"  But  let  me  come  to-morrow,  too,  then,"  he  asked. 

This  was  extremely  awkward.  Though  Lucia  highly 
approved  the  feeling  that  made  him  want  to  come,  it 
would  never  do  if  he  came.  It  would  be  known  that  she 
had  asked  him. 

* '  Ah !  no,  no, ' '  she  cried.  ' '  It  would  be  delightful,  I 
needn  't  say,  but  much,  much  too  risky.  You  would  be- 
tray some  familiarity  with  the  house  or  I  should  allude 
to  something  that  happened  to-day.  It  would  all  come 
out.  How  horrid  and  inhospitable  it  sounds  of  me !  ' 

There  was  good  sense  in  this,  as  there  was  in  all  that 
Lucia  did,  and  the  danger  was  averted.  But  it  had  been 
quite  a  close  shave;  she  might  have  been  unable  to 
think  of  an  excuse. 

11  Ah,  how  quick  you  are!  "  he  said  admiringly. 
"  You  make  me  feel  so  slow  and  heavy-witted. " 

She  picked  up  her  Omar. 

"It  is  an  impression  that  is  confined  to  yourself, 
then,"  she  said.  "  It  is — what  do  Christian  Scientists 
call  it! — a  false  claim.  Now,  Lord  Brayton,  do  not  let 
us  stand  here.  What  would  you  like  to  do? 


THE   CLIMBER  167 

"  '  The  bird  of  time  has  but  a  little  way 

To  flutter — and  the  bird  is  on  the  wing,' " 

she  quoted.  "  Shall  we  walk  along  the  beach?  Shall 
we  sit  and  talk?  Oh,  good  gracious!  "  she  added  sud- 
denly. 

"  What  is  it?  "he  asked. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  you.  Oh,  but  I  think  I  must;  it 
will  make  you  laugh.  I've  sent  the  parlourmaid  out 
for  the  afternoon,  and  who  will  get  tea  ready  for  us? 
Isn't  it  funny?  In  the  course  of  your  varied  life  were 
you  ever  asked  anywhere  to  get  a  reception  the  least 
like  this?  " 

Then,  like  two  children,  they  just  stood  and  laughed. 

' '  I  have  never  enjoyed  a  reception  more, ' '  he  said  at 
length,  with  perfect  truth. 

* '  Oh,  how  nice  of  you  to  say  that !  You  know  I  am 
glad  to  see  you  if  that  helps.  Let  us  walk.  There  is  a 
heavenly  sandy  beach  a  little  farther  on,  quite,  quite 
empty — nothing  but  sand  and  the  tent  I'put  up  to  bathe 
from.  And  Aunt  Cathie  wades.  You  saw  her  at  Brix- 
ham,  you  remember.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so 
darling?  Now  you  shall  talk  a  little,  if  you  like.  I'm 
afraid  I  haven't  allowed  you  to  speak  much  yet.  Tell 
me  about  Brixham.  How  are  things  going?  Did  you 
have  a  pleasant  party  in  your  house?  ' 

"  I  really  haven't  been  in  to  Brixham  since  the  day  I 
lunched  with  you, ' '  he  said.  '  *  My  party  ?  No ;  to  speak 
quite  frankly,  I  thought  it  was  rather  dull." 

She  laughed  very  genuinely,  for  she  was  delighted. 

"  What  a  dismal  tale!  "  she  said;  "  and  to  cheer  you 
up,  I  take  you  to  this  large  and  desolate  beach.  But 
you  must  like  my  beach ;  I  can't  bear  that  people  should 
not  like  what  I  like.  It's  so  big,  and  empty,  and  clean. 


168  THE   CLIMBER 

I  should  like  a  room  as  big,  and  I  should  put  three 
chairs  in  it,  and  one  small  table,  and  have  no  carpets 
and  no  pictures." 

"  And  would  you  have  all  the  rooms  in  your  house 
like  that!  "he  asked. 

"  Ah!  no,  but  one,  into  which  I  should  go  when  I 
found  myself  getting  funny  and  stuffy  and  microscop- 
ical. Dear  me !  I'm  not  letting  you  talk,  as  I  promised. 
I  assure  you  I  don't  always  monopolize  conversation. 
I  think  it's  your  fault,  Lord  Brayton." 

"  I  am  quite  willing  to  bear  both  the  blame  and  the 
conversation,"  he  said.  "  But  why  my  fault?  " 

Lucia  turned  and  faced  him  with  the  frankness  of  a 
boy. 

11  Because  there  is  something  in  you  that  makes  me 
want  to  talk  to  it.  Oh,  there  are  people  who  make  me 
feel  as  if  I  was  talking  to  a  large  lump  of  damp  dough. 
I  dare  say  they  are  really  full  of  beautiful  thoughts  and 
delightful  feelings,  poor  dears !  but  they  are  imbedded 
in  dough.  Or  perhaps  it  is  I — probably  I." 

Again  he  found  that  he  was  scarcely  attending  to 
what  she  said,  so  absorbed  was  he  in  her  who  said  it. 
And  never,  so  he  thought,  had  her  charm  appeared  so 
brilliant,  as  when  she  stood  here  on  the  empty  golden 
sands,  in  the  blaze  of  this  shining  afternoon.  Truly  and 
faithfully  did  her  noble  beauty  reflect  the  splendid 
spirit  that  dwelt  within;  meet  was  the  house  from 
which  her  soul  looked  forth,  so  generously,  so  warmly 
on  the  world.  As  he  looked  his  heart  rose  within  him : 
the  fire  kindled,  and  he  spoke. 

"  The  empty  beach,  do  you  say?  "  he  asked  quickly. 
"  Lucia,  it  is  full — full.  From  end  to  end  of  it,  it  is 
you.  You  and  my  love  for  you." 


THE    CLIMBER  169 

Lucia  stood  quite  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  at  him 
with  mouth  a  little  open,  startled  and  surprised.  Cool 
and  calculating  as  she  had  been  throughout,  yet  when 
this  came  there  was  something  deadly  serious  about  it. 
Often  she  had  imagined  to  herself  what  she  would  say 
when  the  much-to-be-desired  moment  came,  and  she  had 
in  these  sketches  of  her  fancy  been  quite  up  to  the  mark. 
But  now,  though  what  he  felt  was  unintelligible  to  her, 
she  knew  that  to  him  it  was  something  tremendous ;  the 
hurried,  stammered  words  showed  her  that,  and  it  a 
little  frightened  her.  It  was  not  smooth  and  romantic 
and  polished,  there  was  something  fierce  and  elemental 
in  it. 

"  Oh,  Lord  Brayton!  "  she  said,  very  feebly. 

He  took  hold  of  both  her  hands,  grasping  them  hard. 

11  I  can't  do  without  you,"  he  said;  "  it's  no  use. 
You  are  for  me;  do  you  understand." 

Lucia  was  furious  with  herself;  she  had  not  foreseen 
that  it  would  be  like  this.  All  that  he  felt  was  leagues 
above  her  head,  since  for  the  time,  anyhow,  he  had  got 
completely  outside  himself,  and  she  had  no  idea  what  to 
say.  The  softly  murmured  "  yes,"  the  averting  of  the 
head,  the  faint  flush,  and  the  graduallly  growing  radi- 
ant smile,  all  of  which  she  could  have  managed  beau- 
tifully, she  knew  to  be  so  utterly  off  the  point  as  to  be 
ludicrous,  and  she  simply  stood  there  mute  and  help- 
less. She  did  not  know  her  part,  and  her  heart,  which 
was  the  only  possible  prompter,  appeared  not  to  be  in 
its  place.  It  struck  her  that  her  assurance  that  she  did 
not  always  monopolize  the  conversation  was  being  most 
inconveniently  demonstrated.  She  had  expected  (and 
had  provided  for)  some  declaration  which  would  be  cul- 
tivated and  decorous,  and  perhaps  a  little  self-centred, 


170  THE   CLIMBER 

with  an  allusion  as  to  how  wonderfully  she  would  fur- 
ther and  assist  the  aims  which  they  had  talked  over  to- 
gether; but  instead  of  this  he  told  her  that  she  was 
his  with  a  suppressed  violence  which  the  suppression 
made  more  potent. 

"  Lucia,  you  know  it,  too,"  he  said,  still  savagely;  "  I 
swear  you  know  it,  too.  There  is  no  separate  existence 
possible  for  either  of  us." 

But  Lucia  just  made  a  gesture  of  appeal  to  him. 

"  Ah,  don't,  don't!  "  she  said.    "  I  am  frightened." 

Somewhere  deep  inside  her  she  knew  that  if  she  only 
had  passion  on  her  side  to  meet  his,  the  whole  thing 
would  be  the  simplest,  most  natural,  most  divine  thing 
in  the  world.  But  she  had  none,  and  the  vehemence  of 
his  was  unintelligible,  and  in  so  far  as  it  was  under- 
stood, it  was  terrifying.  By  her  spells  she  had  raised 
something  over  which  she  had  no  control,  and  though 
distantly,  so  to  speak,  she  could  just  hear  the  ecstatic 
shouts  with  which  she — the  worldly,  calculating  she — 
welcomed  her  own  triumph,  in  the  foreground  there 
stood  this  alarming  genie  which  she  had  raised.  Then, 
to  her  immense  relief,  the  genie  showed  another  aspect. 

11  Ah,  what  a  rough  brute  I  am,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
sorry,  my  dearest — I  am  sorry.  But  your  beauty,  your 
*  you  '  drove  me  mad. ' ' 

That  was  much  better;  her  triumph-song  sounded 
suddenly  louder. 

' '  You  startled  me  a  little  ' '  said  Lucia ;  ' '  it — it  is 
very  stupid  of  me,  Lord  Brayton;  will  you  be  very 
kind?  Will  you " 

Then  all  her  courage  returned.  She  had  won;  she 
had  accomplished  what  she  had  set  herself  to  do,  had 
captured  this  huge  prize — had  captured,  also,  a  man 


THE   CLIMBER  171 

she  liked,  with  whom  she  was  in  sympathy.  There  was 
no  need  for  her  to  say  what  she  had  meant  to,  to  ask 
him  to  wait  for  her  answer.  So,  with  shining  eyes  and 
outstretched  hands  that  still  trembled  a  little  with  that 
curious  spasm  of  fear  which  was  as  real  an  emotion  as 
any  she  had  ever  felt,  she  advanced  a  step  to  him. 

' '  Oh,  Edgar, ' '  she  said,  *  *  there  is  no  need  for  me  to 
ask  you  to  be  kind.  I  am  not  frightened  any  more :  I 
can 't  think  why  I  was  frightened.  It  is  '  yes  '  my  dar- 
ling, it  is  'yes.'  : 

The  sea  and  the  empty  sands  were  witness.  Lucia 
had  put  a  high  price  on  herself,  and  it  was  paid.  But 
the  price  she  received  was  immeasurable  in  terms  of 
what  she  asked,  for  she  was  given  love.  And  she  did 
not  know  what  that  strange  coin  was;  she  had  never 
paid  it  out  of  her  own  self.  It  was  scarcely  her  fault ; 
simply  the  mint  of  her  personality,  the  currency  by 
which  she  was  individual  in  the  world,  had  not  coined  it. 
But  she  was  quite  willing  to  entrust  all  that  she  knew  of 
herself  to  him. 

She  was  not  frightened  any  longer,  and  it  was  with 
complete  self-possession  that  she  received  his  kiss  on 
her  lips.  Indeed,  she  was  on  the  other  side  of  calm,  and 
what  frightened  her  before  was  welcome  now.  It  was 
even  more  than  welcome,  she  felt  more  than  kindly  to 
wards  it.  He  was  a  dear  to  love  her  like  that ;  she  would 
do  her  very  best  to  deserve  and  to  meet  and  to  honour 
that  which  was  symbolized  thus.  And  since  to  be  the 
self  which  he  had  known  and  fallen  in  love  with  was 
most  likely  to  satisfy  him  still,  with  all  the  intimacy 
added  which  that  which  had  happened  demanded,  she 
was  herself  again. 

"  There!  there!  "  she  said.     "  Oh,  we  mustn't  be 


172  THE    CLIMBER 

'Arry  and  'Arriet  at  Margate!  I  must  sit  down.  I 
think  I  am — yes,  what  'Arriet  would  call  *  all  of  a 
tremble.'  Do  you  think  being  happy  makes  you  trem- 
ble, as  being  frightened  does?  Oh,  Edgar,  it  was  the 
empty  beach  to  which  I  brought  you." 

"  Never  empty,"  he  said.    "  You  were  there." 

"  The  full  beach  then.  Oh,  it  is  full.  You  see,  I 
never  saw  you  here  before.  Look  at  the  little  bathing 
tent!  Was  it  lonely,  do  you  think,  before  you  came? 
Was  it  waiting?  Was  the  sea  waiting,  and  the  sands? 
Oh,  did  God  make  this  big  shining  place  just  for 
this?" 

It  was  quite  easy  to  her,  now  that  the  savageness  had 
gone  from  him,  to  say  things  like  these.  She  was  not 
consciously  deceiving  him;  she  was  engaged  to  him, 
and  merely  said  what  her  brain  told  her  was  natural  to 
say.  Ignorant  though  she  was  of  love,  she  guessed  its 
language  very  well.  He  listened  like  one  entranced; 
and  he  never  looked  so  handsome. 

"  Yes,  that  was  so,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  Lucia,  tell  me 
more  of  the  world  and  of  you." 

She  let  her  eyes  dwell  on  him  a  moment,  then 
sighed  and  looked  largely  round.  And  she  spoke, 
smiling. 

"  But  we  have  to  see  the  world  with  our  own  eyes, 
when  all  is  said.  Things  are  as  they  are  to  us :  our  con- 
sciousness of  them  is  the  final  appeal.  Whether  you  ask 
me  of  the  world  or  of  me,  it  is  your  estimate  of  them 
you  want  to  have  told  you. ' ' 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  knee. 

' '  No,  not  so  at  all, ' '  he  said.  ' '  It  is  your  eyes  I  must 
see  with.  You  know  I  began  to  see  with  your  eyes  the 
very  first  day,  when  I  had  tea  with  you  alone  at  your 


THE   CLIMBEE  173 

house.  You  made  me  see  my  aims  with  your  eyes,  and 
now  I  must  see  everything  with  your  eyes." 

This,  again,  was  quite  in  her  grasp ;  the  conversation 
had  become  a  philosophical  discussion,  intimate,  it  is 
true,  but  comprehensible  again  to  her.  She  felt  she 
might  even  introduce  a  humorous  touch  into  it — a  thing 
that  a  few  minutes  ago  would  have  been  dreadfully  in- 
congruous. 

"  Ah,  I  understand,"  she  said  mischievously,  "  I 
must  tell  you  about  yourself,  is  it  not  so,  because  you 
are  me  ?  And  I  must  tell  you  about  the  world  as  I  see 
it,  because  that  is  how  you  really  see  it?  Oh,  it  is  a 
beautiful  world,  and  it  has  all  been  kindled  to-day.  It 
is  more  vivid.  Oh,  Edgar,  I  have  it  now !  We,  you  and 
I  separate,  looked  at  life  with  one  eye  each,  as  through 
a  telescope.  Now  that  this — this  has  happened,  we  are 
like  the  two  eyes  of  one  person :  what  we  see  is  solid,  in- 
stead of  being  flat  What  do  they  call  it  f  Binocular ! 
And  I  began  to  see  for  you,  did  I,  when  first  you  saw 
me T  " 

"  No,  not  the  first  time,"  he  said.  "  I  met  you  in 
London,  do  you  remember?  Your  friend  Miss  Eddis 
introduced  me  to  you." 

"  But  it  was  then  that  you  began  for  me,"  said  Lucia, 
softly. 

"  I  did  not  guess  it,"  said  he. 

"  Nor  I,  then." 

The  sea  was  very  still ;  now  and  then  a  wavelet  hissed 
on  the  sand  as  if  it  had  fallen  on  molten  gold ;  the  wild 
birds  of  ocean  wheeled  round  them,  a  red  sail  smoul- 
dered against  the  blue.  And  Lucia  tried  to  feel  more 
than  she  felt,  and  could  not ;  but  his  cup  of  feeling  was 
full. 


174  THE   CLIMBER 

There  was  a  long  silence;  each  was  looking  at  the 
other,  Lucia  smiling,  he  very  grave.  Then  her  smile 
broadened  into  a  laugh. 

*  *  We  must  be  sensible  again, ' '  she  said, ' '  sensible,  I 
mean,  in  the  practical  sense.    Oh,  how  prosaic  it  is! 
But  please  look  at  your  watch." 

"  It  doesn't  tell  the  time  any  more,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
now.  There  is  no  more  than  that." 

Lucia  leaned  towards  him,  and  pulled  it  out  of  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"  Oh,  it  is  now,"  she  said,  "  I  know  that,  do  I  not! 
But  what  particular  bit  of  now  is  it?  Ah,  it  is  five 
o'clock — now.  You  will  just  have  time  to  let  me  give 
you  some  tea  before " 

"  Before  what!  "  he  asked.    "  Who  cares?  " 

Lucia  sighed. 

"  It  is  very  tiresome  being  sensible,"  she  said;  "  but 
hadn't  we  better  let  it  be  tiresome ?  Besides,  I — I  want 
to  do  something  for  you " 

* l  When  you  have  done  all  ?  ' 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  boil  some  water  for  you,  and  give 
you  some  tea.  I  do  really.  How  silly  of  me,  as  if  it 
mattered!  ' 

"  Nothing  matters  so  much  as  what  you  want,"  he 
said. 

*  *  Then  I  want  you  to  get  up,  and  take  my  hands  in 
yours,  and  pull  me  to  my  feet.    Oh,  Edgar,  this  full 
happy  beach !    It  was  so  empty !  ' 

"  But  I  never  saw  it  without  you,"  he  said. 

They  walked  for  some  fifty  yards  back  towards  the 
.single  line  of  houses  in  silence.  After  climax  there  is 
.always  anti-climax,  since  human  life  has  the  deplorable 


THE   CLIMBER  175 

effect  of  never  remaining  on  a  permanent  top-note,  and 
to  each  came  anti-climax.  To  him  it  came  naturally  and 
gently;  he  had  always  been  intent  on  what  seemed  to 
him  the  worthy  things  in  life,  and  he  thought  of  them 
again  in  the  new  light  that  Lucia  shed  on  them.  For  a 
few  minutes,  or  for  more  than  that,  all  his  life,  all 
himself  had  been  absorbed  in  her.  It  was  no  less  ab- 
sorbed perhaps  now  but  it  looked  out  from  inside  her, 
and  saw  the  aims,  the  scope  of  life,  again.  Those  things 
were  there  still  the  same  in  themselves,  but  with  a  new 
and  wonderful  light  thrown  on  to  them.  But  they  were 
there,  and  it  was  possible  for  him  to  regard  them  again. 
It  would  have  been  unnatural  if  he  had  not  done  so,  for 
no  nature  becomes  suddenly  different  from  that  which 
it  had  always  been,  however  vivid  and  astonishing  is 
any  new  experience.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  the 
girl  weeks  ago,  and  his  outlook  was  not  radically  al- 
tered because  she  had  accepted  his  devotion.  His  na- 
ture was  not  changed  because  he  had  the  promise  of  its 
fulfillment.  Whether  it  was  enlarged  or  not,  even,  was 
a  question  for  the  future  to  solve.  But  the  fact  that 
Lucia  had  accepted  his  devotion,  had  confessed  to  her 
own  devotion  for  him,  did  not  put  a  different  aspect 
on  what  he  knew  of  himself.  Intensely  happy  he  cer- 
tainly was,  but  he  had  anticipated  this  happiness,  and 
thus,  though  quite  unconsciously,  he  had  discounted  it. 
He  had  not,  in  fact,  proposed  to  her  with  any  feeling 
that  she  would  not  possibly  accept  him.  He  was  genu- 
inely in  love  but  he  had  not  anticipated  discourage- 
ment. But  there  was  no  abatement  of  bliss;  "  now  " 
was  exquisite ;  but  the  future  would  be  more  exquisite. 
The  smouldering  gold  of  her  hair,  the  flower-like 
mouth,  would  be  his  just  as  her  companionship,  her 


176  THE    CLIMBER 

stimulus,  would  be  his.  He  had  felt  them  his  already ; 
he  was  in  love  with  them  all.  And  his  love  was  ac- 
cepted; it  was  returned. 

Lucia  also  had  her  anti-climax.  All  that  had  hap- 
pened had  happened  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  her  aspira- 
tions, and  with  the  exception  of  her  sudden  terror,  she 
had  done  her  part  with  the  completeness  that  her  imag- 
ination of  it  all  demanded.  His  love  for  her  was  of  an 
ardour  she  had  not  contemplated,  but  the  embarrass- 
ment of  that  was  past,  and  she  was  at  this  moment  on 
the  top  step  of  all  that  she  had  planned.  Then,  with  a 
furious  rush,  all  sorts  of  infinitesimal  inconveniences 
which  must  be  averted,  came  into  her  mind.  She 
thought  these  all  over,  and  then,  taking  his  arm,  put 
them  into  speech. 

"  I  shall  love  to  show  you  the  dreadful  little  house," 
she  said.  "  I  shall  love  to  go  down  to  the  kitchen  and 
boil  the  water  and  cut  the  bread  and  butter.  No ;  you 
shall  not  come  and  help.  I  want  to  do  it  for  you.  You 
will  have  just  time  to  eat  the  bread  and  butter  that  I 
shall  cut,  and  then  you  shall  go  to  the  station.  Yes;  I 
will  walk  as  far  with  you.  Oh,  how  much  simpler  if  you 
could  stop  and  let  us  tell  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  Aunt  Cath- 
erine what  h$s — has  happened.  But  you  mustn't;  I 
want  to  be  alone  with  the  knowledge  for  a  little — oh, 
you  must  really  give  me  that !  I  want  to  make  it  real  to 
me  myself,  before  I  tell  anybody.  Yes;  it  is  real — I 
know  that — but  I  want  to  get  a  little  used  to  it  before 
anybody  knows.  So — it  is  hard  to  say — don't  come 
here  to-morrow,  even  now,  when  nothing  matters  except 
It.  I  want  to  sit  on  the  beach  again — can  you  under- 
stand, I  wonder? — and  look  at  the  sea  again  as  I — we 
saw  it,  and  make  all  things  mine.  They  are  yours  just 


THE    CLIMBER  177 

at  present;  you  have  taken  them  from  me;  and  they 
must  be  mine  again.  But  not  mine  any  longer,  nor 
yours,  but  ours." 

For  one  moment  Lucia  wondered  at  herself.  All  that 
she  had  felt  was  that  Edgar  must  go  away  before  the 
others  returned  from  their  expedition  to  Trew,  and  that 
he  must  not  come  to-morrow,  while  Maud  would  be  still 
in  the  house.  That  she  would  be  able  to  explain  things 
to  Maud  eventually  she  did  not  doubt ;  but  she  was  not 
prepared,  to  explain  this  at  once.  Things  had  to  be 
thought  over ;  it  was  obviously  wise  to  give  the  best  pos- 
sible aspect  to  events,  especially  if  they  were  events 
that  one  had  caused  oneself.  And  at  the  present  mo- 
ment their  aspect  was  rather  ugly;  somehow  that  aspect 
must  be  painted  over.  She  must  find  a  new  light  to  cast 
on  it  which  should  make  it  appear  beautiful.  But  that 
she  had  to  think  over.  It  would  not  do  at  all  if  he  came 
again  to-morrow  in  the  character  of  accepted  lover. 

Her  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  see  him  the  next  day 
enchanted  him. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  cried.  "  You  make  me  see.  You  tell 
me  what  I  feel  also,  though  I  did  not  know  it.  I  want 
to  be  alone  with  the  knowledge  for  a  little — to  let  it 
burn  in  its  secret  shrine " 

Again  she  had  raised  the  genie  over  which  she  had  no 
control.  That  which  she  had  suggested  for  her  own 
petty,  paltry  reasons  appealed  to  him  on  another 
ground,  in  ways  of  which  she  had  no  conception. 
Though  it  was  charming  to  find  that  her  wishes  on  this 
subject  so  mysteriously  accorded  with  his,  it  was  less 
satisfactory  to  know  that  he  had  arrived  at  the  same 
goal  by  some  golden  aerial  route  unknown  to  her.  She 
had  quoted,  as  she  knew  well,  from  what  Maud  had  said 


178  THE   CLIMBER 

to  her,  how  that  there  was  something  secret  about  love 
• — some  isolating  quality.  She  had  extended  the  princi- 
ple, it  is  true,  assuming  that  at  the  first  even  lovers 
themselves  wish  to  be  alone,  but  her  extension  appeared 
to  be  perfectly  sound. 

The  rest  of  his  visit  was  all  it  should  be.  Lucia  felt 
her  way  with  unerring  tact  and  instinct.  By  a  sort  of 
divination  she  gave  him  just  that  which  a  man  natu- 
rally self-centred  would  look  for  when,  for  the  time  at 
any  rate,  he  has  been  hoisted  out  of  himself  by  love. 
And,  indeed,  she  did  it  all  with  sincerity.  Ignorant  as 
she  was  of  passion,  she  wanted  to  get  as  near  to  it  as 
she  could,  to  understand  what  he  felt,  and  talk  the  new 
language.  She  was  gay  and  gentle  with  him,  breaking 
out  now  and  then  into  childish  merriment  at  this  adven- 
ture of  theirs  in  having  tea  in  the  kitchen.  That  had 
been  quite  unpremeditated  on  Lucia's  part,  but  it  was 
brilliantly  successful,  and  it  was  at  his  suggestion  that 
they  had  their  tea  there,  rather  than  carry  up  the  ap- 
paratus to  the  drawing-room.  For  they  found  that  not 
only  the  housemaid  but  the  cook  also  had  gone  out ;  they 
were  quite  alone  in  the  house.  Then  again,  even  in  the 
middle  of  her  laughter,  she  would  grow  tender  and 
grave  again  in  answer  to  his  mood,  and  let  a  long 
silence  speak  for  her.  Soon  it  was  necessary  to  go  to 
the  station  and  wait  till  his  train  went. 

"  Horrid  train!  "  she  said  gently,  raising  her  eyes 
to  his,  as  he  stood  at  the  carriage  window.  "  Don't  ask 
why;  you  know." 

Lucia  had  what  she  called  "  a  big  think  "  all  by  her- 
self that  night.  She  had  gone  upstairs  to  bed  rather 


THE   CLIMBEE  179 

early,  with  a  view  to  "  getting  over  "  all  fatigue  and 
after-effects  of  her  headache,  which  she  said  was  quite 
unnecessary,  at  the  urgent  advice  of  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
and  in  case  of  Maud's  coming  in  to  see  if  she  was  all 
right,  had  really  gone  to  bed.  But  she  had  been  very 
actively  awake  for  the  next  hour  or  two,  and  when  she 
came  downstairs  next  morning,  she  had  formed  a  reso- 
lution which  she  knew  would  require  all  her  courage  to 
carry  out.  Sooner  or  later  Maud  must  know  of  her  en- 
gagement, and  that  being  the  case,  it  was  much  better 
that  she  should  know  at  once.  How  she  would  take  it 
Lucia,  though  she  knew  her  so  well,  could  not  guess,  but 
her  knowledge  of  her  friend  told  her  that  she  would  be 
deeply  hurt  if  she  found  out  that  Lucia  had  been  en- 
gaged without  telling  her.  So  she  decided,  with  a  view 
of  saving  that,  to  let  her  know  at  once,  and  to  tell  her 
herself.  It  would  have  avoided  an  interview  which,  in 
anticipation,  Lucia  almost  dreaded,  that  Maud  should 
learn  it  as  all  the  rest  of  the  world  would  learn  it,  but 
it  would  save  a  far  deeper  wound  to  Maud  afterwards  if 
she  found  that  she  had  not  been  taken  into  Lucia's  con- 
fidence. Eleven  o'clock  had  struck  before  Lucia  came 
to  this  determination.  It  took  her  another  hour  to 
think  out  the  manner  of  what  she  would  say. 

The  girls  went  out  early  after  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing, before  Aunt  Elizabeth  came  down.  She  came  down 
late  to-day,  not  because  she  was  tired,  but  because  she 
had  been  on  an  expedition  the  day  before,  and  after  ex- 
peditions it  was  usual  to  come  down  late.  Aunt  Cathie 
waited  indoors  to  give  her  breakfast,  and  so  the  two 
were  alone. 

Lucia  was  rather  silent  as  they  walked,  with  their 
towels  and  bathing  dresses  over  their  arms,  toward  the 


180  THE    CLIMBER 

tent,  and  Maud  noticed  it.  She  put  her  things  aside, 
and  then  came  and  sat  down  on  the  sand  by  her  friend. 

11  What  is  it,  Lucia?  "  she  said.  "  Is  anything 
wrong?  Have  you  a  headache  again?  " 

Lucia  took  hold  of  her  courage.  Her  resolution  did 
not  fail  her ;  it  had  got  to  be  done,  and,  according  to  her 
plan,  she  was  going  to  do  it  with  utter  completeness. 
Maud  was  going  to  be  told  absolutely  everything.  Lucia 
was  determined  to  take  no  risk  of  her  finding  anything 
out  afterwards. 

' '  No, ' '  she  said, ' '  I  have  no  headache  at  all.  I  hadn  't 
one  yesterday,  either.  Maud,  I  wonder  if  we  shall  be 
friends  in  half  an  hour's  time." 

This  bomb-shell  had  no  effect  whatever  on  Maud. 
Her  serenity  was  quite  undisturbed ;  so,  too,  was  her 
faith  in  Lucia. 

11  Oh,  you  must  be  mistaken  about  something  if  you 
think  there  is  any  chance  of  our  not  being,"  she  said. 
1 '  At  least,  I  can  only  speak  from  my  side  of  our  friend- 
ship— no,  I  speak  from  yours,  too." 

"  You  don't  know  yet,"  said  Lucia. 

"  No,  but  I  know  you,  and  I  know  myself  to  some  ex- 
tent." 

' '  But  what  if  in  half  an  hour  you  find  yourself  say- 
ing that  you  have  never  known  me?  "  asked  Lucia.  She 
felt  herself  horribly  weak  in  temporizing  like  this,  but 
it  was  more  difficult  to  begin  than  she  had  anticipated. 
Anyhow,  she  was  preparing  Maud  for  something 
dreadful. 

But  it  seemed  as  if  Maud  refused  to  be  prepared. 
She  laughed. 

"  Darling,  you  look  like  Lady  Macbeth,"  she  said. 
"  Do  begin;  now  for  the  revelations." 


THE    CLIMBER  181 

Lucia  sat  straight  up  and  looked  Maud  full  in  the 
face. 

' '  I  am  engaged  to  be  married, ' '  she  said — ' '  I  am  en- 
gaged to  Edgar  Brayton." 

For  half  a  second  Maud  shrank  back  as  if  a  blow  had 
been  aimed  at  her.  But  the  movement  was  as  instinct- 
ive as  the  wincing  from  pain ;  it  was  not  her  will  that 
dictated  it.  Then  she  took  both  Lucia's  hands  in 
hers. 

' '  Oh,  Lucia,  Lucia !  ' '  she  said.  ' '  I — I  know  you  will 
be  very  happy.  Just  give  me  a  moment — just  five 
seconds." 

Scarcely  so  many  passed — and  then  Maud  drew 
Lucia's  face  to  hers  and  kissed  her. 

"  Ah,  my  darling,  I  congratulate  you  most  sin- 
cerely," she  said.  "  I  was  a  little  brute  at  first,  and 
found  that  I  couldn't.  But  I  am  all  right  again  now. 
I  do  congratulate  you.  I  do!  Friends  indeed!  What 
would  my  friendship  be  worth  if  I  could  think — good 
gracious!  ': 

Lucia's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears — genuine 
ones.  She  was  immensely  touched. 

"  Oh,  Maud,  really,  really?  "  she  asked.  "  Even 
though  I  knew  all  the  time  what  you  told  me  last 
June?  " 

Maud  smiled — that  quiet,  serene  smile  which  was  so 
characteristic  of  her,  and  lay  on  her  face  as  sunlight 
lies  on  the  yellow  harvest  fields.  It  lacked  the  fire  and 
animation  that  would  have  been  more  characteristic  of 
her  years,  and  it  had  about  it  the  trustful  happiness  of 
those  to  whom  experience  has  brought  no  unsweetening 
of  their  nature.  Above  all,  her  smile  was  full  of  love 


182  THE    CLIMBER 

rather  than  enjoyment,  of  happiness  rather  than 
pleasure. 

*  *  Yes,  but  what  I  told  you  in  June  was  not  my  fault, '  ' 
she  said ;  *  *  nor  is  what  you  tell  me  in  September  yours. 
Love  is  like  that,  I  think,  Lucia.  It  comes,  it  happens. ' ' 

For  one  moment  Lucia  thought  of  telling  Maud  all ; 
not  only  the  things  that  she  would  certainly  find  out 
afterwards,  like  the  fact  of  her  engagement,  but  the 
things  which,  it  was  to  be  hoped,  nobody  would  ever 
find  out — namely,  the  spirit  in  which  she  had  set  out 
for  the  capture  of  this  man,  from  no  motive  of  love, 
but  from  simple,  sheer  ambition,  and  the  triumphant 
satisfaction  of  her  success.  But  in  a  moment  that  im- 
pulse passed,  there  was  no  practical  end  to  be  served 
by  it,  and  in  truth  it  was  no  more  than  that  cheap  in- 
stinct of  honesty,  to  keep  nothing  back,  that  at  times 
assails  the  most  secretive  and  diplomatic. 

11  And — and  you  forgive  me?  "  asked  Lucia. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  you  don't  understand;  there  is  no 
question  of  forgiveness.  It  is  as  I  have  said.  Oh, 
Lucia " 

Maud  stopped  a  moment,  calling  to  mind  the  ex- 
tremely crude  things  that  Lucia  had  said  about  love, 
when  they  sat  in  the  window  seat  of  the  house  in  War- 
wick Square. 

"  How  completely  love  has  turned  the  tables  on 
you,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you  remember  the  dreadful 
things  you  said  to  me  that  night — that  all  young  men 
were  exactly  alike,  and  that  you  did  not  like  them,  but 
that  you  could  imagine  liking  an  old  man  most  awfully  f 
And  all  the  time,  I  remember,  you  thought  you  were 
making  discoveries  about  yourself,  and  getting  to  know 
yourself !  Now  go  on  quick — quick,  dear  Lucia !  I  am 


THE   CLIMBER  183 

dying  to  hear  it  all — all  from  the  very  beginning  down 
to  the  fact  of  your  having  no  headache.  I  am  sure  that 
will  be  entrancing.  I  think  we  will  have  that  first. ' ' 

Lucia  felt  much  better.  Though  she  had  known  how 
devoted  Maud  was  to  her,  she  had  not  guessed  that  her 
devotion  went  so  far  as  this.  But  what  it  had  cost 
Maud  to  take  her  revelations  in  this  way,  how  fierce 
had  been  the  struggle  between  all  that  was  best  in  her 
and  her  sense  of  personal  loss  and  bitter  bereavement, 
she  did  not  think  of  considering.  Maud  had  done  her 
part  heroically,  had  recited  like  a  creed  what  she  knew 
to  be  the  truest  and  the  worthiest  way  of  looking  at 
this,  and  had  so  stifled  all  in  her  that  cried  out  against 
the  cruelty  of  it  that  Lucia  never  suspected  that  there 
had  been  struggle  at  all,  or  that  she  was  struggling 
now,  and  would  have  to  struggle  long  to  be  true  to  her 
best  self.  She  thought  it  very  wonderful  of  Maud  to 
behave  like  this,  but  to  Maud  it  seemed  perfectly 
natural,  as  if  there  was  no  other  possible  mode  of  be- 
haviour. And  she  accepted  this  incomparable  attitude 
with  gratefulness.  Indeed,  as  has  been  said,  she  was 
immensely  touched,  and  proceeded  to  the  recital  of  the 
diplomatic  headache  with  composure. 

' '  I  wonder  if  you  will  think  it  was  too  awful  of  me, ' ' 
she  said.  ' '  You  see,  he  wrote  to  say  he  was  staying  in 
a  house  near,  and  asked  if  he  might  come  over.  But 
you  were  here,  and — forgive  me,  dear — I  didn't  know 
how  you  would  take  what  I  have  just  told  you.  So  I 
arranged  things,  as  you  see.  I  meant  to  tell  you  about 
it  all.  I  am  telling  you  now." 

Lucia  had  quite  recovered  her  normal  vivacity.  She 
sat  up,  brilliant,  bright-eyed,  full  of  the  intensest 
exultation. 


184  THE    CLIMBER 

"  So  I  wrote  to  him,  asking  him  to  come  here  yester- 
day, and  then  sent  you  all  off  for  a  picnic.  I  had  to 
have  an  excuse  for  not  going,  hadn't  I?  So  I  invented 
a  headache. ' ' 

Maud's  serenity,  however,  which  had  vanished  but 
for  a  moment,  when  Lucia  told  her  the  first  part  of  her 
revelations,  seemed  quite  to  have  deserted  her  now. 
She  looked  at  her  friend  with  puzzled  wonder. 

"  But,  Lucia,  dear  Lucia,  what  would  he  think?  ' 
she  asked,  "  when  he  found  you  had  invited  him  over 
here,  and  received  him  alone,  without  anybody  ?  ' ' 

Lucia  laughed ;  she  was  still  too  much  taken  up  with 
the  ingenuity  of  her  scheme  to  notice  the  change  in 
Maud's  face. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  of  that,  too,"  she  said.  "  I  allow 
that  I  had  to  sit  down  and  think,  so  to  speak,  but  when 
I  really  sit  down  to  think  I  generally  get  it  right.  He 
found  me  seated  on  the  beach,  and  I  was  embarrassed. 
I  didn't  tell  a  lie,  but  I  said,  *  Didn't  I  ask  you  for 
Friday,  not  Thursday  ?  '  And  then  I  broke  to  him  that 
I  was  quite  alone  and  that  everybody  but  me  had  gone 
for  a  picnic.  He  produced  my  note  to  show  he  hadn't 
made  a  mistake,  and  there,  of  course,  it  was — '  Do  come 
on  Thursday. '  Oh,  Maud,  the  Bismarck  of  Littletone ! 
That's  me." 

Even  now  the  supreme  egotism  of  Lucia's  nature 
blinded  her  to  the  effect  that  this  story  of  successful 
diplomacy  was  having  on  Maud. 

She  proceeded: 

1 1  And  then  we  walked  down  on  this  beach,  this  dear, 
empty  beach,  which  I  told  him  I  was  so  fond  of;  and 
he  said  it  was  full — full  of  me !  And  so  there  we  were. 
Oh,  I  am  so  happy.  I  don 't  think  anyone  has  ever  been 


THE   CLIMBEK  185 

as  happy  as  I.  And  as  for  you,  Maud,  you're  a  perfect 
darling!  I  don't  know  which  of  you  I  love  most — I 
don 't  indeed. ' ' 

Maud  sat  quite  silent,  while  Lucia  babbled  on.  Be- 
fore, when  Lucia  discharged  the  first  bomb  of  her 
revelations,  her  best  self  was  in  entire  sympathy  with 
her  friend:  it  had  only  been  against  what  she  would 
have  called  her  selfish  self  that  she  had  to  struggle. 
But  now,  in  order  to  be  in  sympathy  with  Lucia,  she 
had  to  struggle  against  her  best  self,  which  was  in  re- 
volt. This  diplomacy,  the  ingenuity  of  it,  the — the 
meanness  of  it,  and,  perhaps,  above  all,  the  self-decep- 
tion of  it  when  Lucia  had  proudly  announced  she  had 
not  told  a  lie  was  utterly  antagonistic  to  Maud;  she 
could  not  praise  it,  could  not  rejoice  in  its  success.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  to  sit  down  and  think  out  such  means, 
and  then  to  employ  them,  infected  and  tarnished  the 
love  on  behalf  of  which  they  were  employed.  If  only 
Lucia  had  felt  the  meanness  of  it,  acknowledged  it,  re- 
gretted it,  the  case  would  have  been  different,  but  she 
gloried  in  it ;  she  laughed  with  exultation  at  the  thought 
of  its  success.  And  then,  without  desire  or  conscious 
encouragement  on  her  part,  there  came  into  her  mind 
other  occasions  when  for  a  moment  (a  moment  as  it 
had  then  appeared  of  petty  disloyalty  and  suspicion  on 
her  part)  she  had  thought  that  Lucia  had  acted  in  a  way 
that  was  unworthy,  deceitful — in  a  way  that  she  now 
saw  was  entirely  in  accord  with  this.  She  could  not 
bear  to  think  that  it  was  Lucia  who  had  done  this,  or 
who  prided  herself  on  it  now.  Surely  this  was  not  the 
real  Lucia. 

"  Was  it  not  well  thought  out?  "  demanded  Lucia  in 
conclusion. 


186  THE   CLTMBEE 

This  was  a  direct  question;  she  paused  for  a  reply. 

"  Yes,  very  well  thought  out,"  said  Maud.  "  Bril- 
liant, quite  brilliant."  But  cordiality  of  tone  was  be- 
yond her ;  it  was  as  much  as  she  could  do  to  smile  in  an 
awkward,  distorted  way,  that  could  not  easily  escape 
the  notice  of  the  Bismarck  of  Littlestone. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter!  "  asked  Lucia. 

Maud  looked  at  her  imploringly. 

"  Oh,  Lucia,  don't  let  us  talk  about  it,"  she  said. 
"It's  time  to  bathe." 

Lucia  frowned. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  is  the  matter?  "  she  said 
again. 

Maud  gave  a  little  groan  of  despair. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  cross  with  me,"  she  said,  "  but  I  hate 
it,  you  know.  I  am  so  sorry  you  did  it.  It  can't  be 
right,  even  in  things  like  a  picnic  and  headache,  to  de- 
ceive everyone  like  that.  And  to  make  him  think  that 
you  had  intended  to  ask  him  on  Friday,  when  you  had 
so  carefully  planned  Thursday.  And — and  to  do  it  all 
for  the  sake  of  what  is  so  splendid  as  love ;  I  think  that 
is  the  worst  part  of  it.  Of  course,  everybody  says  *  not 
at  home,'  because  that  is  only  a  formula,  and  nothing 
depends  on  it.  But  to  deceive  people  when  a  lot  de- 
pends on  it " 

Maud  looked  appealingly  at  her:  if  only  she  would 
say  that  she  understood,  it  would  be  something.  But 
Lucia  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  She  replied  in  a  hard, 
cool  voice. 

"  I  see  I  made  a  mistake,"  she  said.  "  I  did  wrong 
to  tell  you.  It  was  a  pity." 

'  *  No,  no,  not  that !  ' '  cried  Maud. 

"  Yes,  just  that,"  said  Lucia.    "  I  expect  it  is  always 


THE    CLIMBER  187 

a  mistake  to  be  absolutely  frank  with  anybody  as  I  have 
just  been  with  you.  Do  you  remember  that  I  wondered 
whether  in  half  an  hour  we  should  still  be  friends  ?  ' 

Lucia  suddenly  became  aware  that  she  had  lost  her 
temper,  and  that,  she  knew,  was  never  wise,  unless 
something  definite  was  to  be  got  from  it.  She  saw 
Maud's  look  of  entreaty,  of  despair  almost,  and,  after 
all,  Maud  had  behaved  quite  splendidly  about  the  more 
important  part  of  her  revelations.  She  instantly  did 
her  best  to  mend  matters. 

"  Oh,  I  am  such  a  beast,"  she  said;  "  but,  at  any  rate 
I  have  always  told  you  so,  and  I  have  always  told  you 
the  worst  I  know  about  myself.  I  am  a  beast — I  am. 
Of  course  I  shouldn't  have  done  all  these  things;  I 
know  it  perfectly  well,  really ;  but,  darling,  what  would 
be  the  use  of  the  General  Confession,  if  we  never  did 
what  we  ought  not !  We  should  have  to  get  new  prayer- 
books  with  the  General  Confession  left  out.  But  when 
I  have  done  a  thing,  right  or  wrong,  and  it  comes  off 
the  way  I  meant,  I  can't  help  being  pleased  and  calling 
myself  a  little  Bismarck.  I  will  promise  not  to  be  a 
little  Bismarck  oftener  than  I  can  help.  Now  what 
shall  I  do  ?  Shall  I  tell  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  Aunt  Cathie 
about  my  false  headache,  and  the  result  of  it?  Maud, 
I  don 't  believe  it  would  be  right.  Aunt  Elizabeth  would 
certainly  expire.  That  would  add  murder  to  my  other 
crimes,  which  wouldn't  mend  matters.  They  might 
hang  me  for  it. ' ' 

Maud  tried  not  to  laugh,  but  the  effect  only  made 
her  red  in  the  face  first  and  then  the  laugh  came  next. 
She  knew  she  ought  to  have  been  serious,  but  she  could 
not.  And  Lucia  proceeded. 

"  Or  ought  I  to  tell  him?  "  she  said.    "  Oh,  Maud, 


188  THE   CLIMBEE 

don't  say  *  yes.'  I  should  feel  so  unutterably  cheap, 
and  when  I'm  cheap  I'm  nasty,  and  he  woudn't  like 
that.  What  a  brute  you  are,  dear !  You've  spoiled  all 
my  pleasure  in  being  Bismarck.  Don't  speak  till  you 
have  counted  twenty  slowly :  I  want  to  think. ' ' 

Maud  had  only  got  to  "  fifteen,"  when  Lucia  inter- 
rupted. 

"  I've  finished  thinking,"  she  said.  "  And — I'm 
sorry.  And — Thank  you,  darling.  Will  you  give  me 
a  kiss  or  not?  " 

There  is,  doubtless,  such  a  thing  as  a  falling-out  that 
all  the  more  endears,  but  there  is,  unfortunately,  an- 
other sort  of  falling  out  which  does  not  have  such  happy 
results.  Outwardly  the  reconciliation  was  complete, 
but  to  Maud  it  was  as  if  an  earthquake — very  slight 
indeed,  but  perceptible — had  made  the  very  founda- 
tions of  the  noble  building  of  her  friendship  with  Lucia 
to  tremble.  The  building  stood  there  again,  fine  and 
beautiful,  but  there  had  been  those  moments  of  tremor 
which  shook  the  foundations  of  it.  And  Lucia,  on  her 
side,  said  to  herself  that  she  must  remember  to  be  care- 
ful in  what  she  told  her  friend.  Maud  was  a  darling, 
but  she  did  not  always  completely  understand.  If  a 
girl  wanted  a  thing  sufficiently,  she  would  take  reason- 
able steps  to  procure  it,  though  she  herself  would  never 
have  taken  these  if  they  were  not  necessary.  And  she, 
Lucia,  was  the  best  judge  of  what  steps  were  necessary 
in  the  management  of  her  own  affairs. 


CHAPTER  IX 

T  UCIA  was  alone  in  her  white  sitting-room  on  the 
•"afternoon  of  her  twenty-third  birthday.  She  had 
been  married  rather  more  than  two  years;  for  it  was 
mid- June,  and  just  a  month  ago  her  husband  had  given 
her  the  most  delightful  wedding  anniversary  present 
in  the  shape  of  an  enormous  black  pearl.  He  had  been 
rather  mysterious  about  what  he  was  going  to  give  her 
for  her  birthday,  and  had  only  said  that  he  was  sure 
she  would  like  it  very  much.  She  had  liked  it,  and  at 
this  moment  she  was  looking  at  it,  or  at  least  looking 
at  bits  of  it,  for  it  was  large,  and  there  was  not  the 
possibility  of  seeing  it  all  together,  since  the  human  eye 
is  the  human  eye.  It  was  enormous,  being  the  entire 
Kelmscott  Press  on  vellum.  But  after  the  black  pearl, 
and  Edgar's  admission  that  she  would  like  the  new  gift 
very  much,  she  had — no  doubt  without  sufficient 
grounds — expected  that  her  birthday  present  would  be 
more  pearls,  or  perhaps  diamonds.  The  Kelmscott 
Press  was  delightful;  Lucia  liked  it  enormously.  But 
she  liked  pearls  also  very  much,  and  just  now,  in  the 
middle  of  the  season,  there  seemed  more  time  for  them 
than  for  Chaucer.  Of  course,  it  was  charming  of  Edgar 
to  present  her  with  so  magnificent  a  birthday  gift,  and 
she  had  gasped  deliciously  when  he  brought  her  to  it 
(for  it  was  physically  impossible  to  bring  it  to  her  with 
any  ease),  but  she  had  certainly  expected  jewels.  For 
when,  a  week  ago,  he  was  wondering  what  he  should 

189 


190  THE    CLIMBEE 

give  her — what  was  worthy  of  her  was  his  exact  phrase 
— she  had  told  him  pointblank  she  wished  for  nothing, 
that  she  had  all,  all  that  she  desired,  and  hoped  he 
would  not  spend  his  money  on  her.  Immediately  after- 
ward, she  had  referred  to  a  sale  of  jewels  that  was  com- 
ing on  that  week  at  Christie's,  and  had  said  there  was 
a  diamond  necklace  (necklet  rather,  for  it  was  only  an 
affair  of  twenty  stones)  that  was  a  dream.  She  blamed 
herself  now  for  that  miscarriage;  she  ought  to  have 
said  it  two  or  three  times  to  make  sure.  Oh  yes,  it 
was  her  fault,  for  in  an  unthinking  moment  directly 
afterward  she  had,  still  reading  snippets  from 
the  paper,  told  him  that  there  was  a  book-sale  at 
Sotheby's. 

As  a  girl  Lucia  never  wasted  much  time  over  regrets, 
and  she  wasted  very  little  time  over  this  now.  She  was 
going  to  have  a  little  dinner-party  this  evening,  and  a 
North  Pole  explorer  had  sent  regrets  this  morning,  say- 
ing that  he  had  influenza  and  could  not  come.  That 
seemed  very  absurd ;  and  it  was  ridiculous  that  people 
who  exposed  themselves  to  the  rigours  of  those  extreme 
latitudes  should  get  these  mild  complaints,  but  there 
it  was,  and  she  was  a  man  short.  Edgar  (he  was  a 
little  old-fashioned  in  some  ways)  had  then  volunteered 
to  go  out  and  see  if  at  the  club  or  elsewhere  he  could 
find  a  man,  rejecting  her  proposal  to  telephone  instead 
until  somebody  said  "  yes."  That,  again,  had  seemed 
to  her  absurd.  What  were  telephones  for  except  to  get 
people  at  the  last  minute?  Edgar,  however,  held  a  hus- 
band's and  a  dissentient  view.  He  said  that  anyone 
who  came  to  fill  up  a  place  at  the  last  minute  was  a 
benefactor,  and  that  such  a  man  ought  to  be  approached 


THE   CLIMBER  191 

verbatim,  with  gratitude  and  apology,  not  with  a  tele- 
phone. So  he  went  out,  armed  with  gratitude  and 
apology,  to  seek  one. 

Lucia,  having  looked  with  chastened  appreciation  at 
the  back  of  the  vellum  Kelmscotts,  devoted  a  little  time 
to  the  general  contemplation  of  those  reflections  to 
which  Edgar's  scruples  gave  rise.  It  was  her  birthday, 
and  therefore  a  day  on  which,  most  naturally,  the 
thoughts  are  as  a  header  board  to  project  the  person 
who  has  been  born  into  either  the  future  or  the  past. 
Lucia  took  a  neat  plunge  into  the  past. 

It  was  a  very  sunny  sea ;  all  had  gone  extremely  well, 
and  even  if  there  were  occasional  clouds,  the  amount  of 
sunshine  registered  was  certainly  above  the  normal. 
She  did  not  seek  to  deny  that  she  had  made  certain  sac- 
rifices to  keep  it  at  the  desirable  level,  but  up  to  the 
present  she  saw  that  her  sacrifices  had  been  quite  worth 
while.  Yet  they  had  not  been  inconsiderable.  For  the 
first  year  of  their  marriage  Edgar  and  she  had  hardly 
been  in  England  at  all,  but  had  widened  their  mental 
horizon  by  prolonged  foreign  travel.  They  had  been 
through  Canada,  through  Egypt,  through  Japan, 
through  India,  and  had  spent  certain  dolorous  weeks  in 
the  South  Sea  Islands.  Then  they  had  come  to  London 
for  some  six  weeks  of  the  season,  and  had  started  off 
again  almost  immediately  afterwards  to  visit  other 
more  rarely  travelled  countries.  There  was  nothing 
haphazard,  there  was  no  idea  of  merely  passing  the 
time  about  this ;  it  was  the  fulfilment  of  preconceived 
and  thought-out  ideas  which  he  had  broached  to  her 
before  marriage.  The  upshot  of  them,  as  she  went  over 
it  in  her  mind  now,  did  not  really  give  a  fair  idea  of 
them,  since,  taken  in  bulk,  they  savoured  of  too  rooted 


192  THE    CLIMBER 

a  passion  for  education.  But  the  various  items  of  this 
menu  had  been  suggested  singly ;  it  was  only  when  they 
were  put  together  that  they  became  excessive.  But  to 
her  mind  now  they  formed  a  sort  of  soliloquy,  delivered 
in  Edgar's  smooth  voice,  to  this  effect: 

"  You  will  like  to  see  Canada,  my  darling,  will  you 
not?  So  let  us  go  there  directly  after  our  marriage. 
The  yacht  will  meet  us  at  Liverpool,  and  we  will  go  by 
the  Northern  route,  where  we  shall  certainly  see  an 
iceberg  or  two.  Then  we  will  leave  the  yacht  at  Que- 
bec, and  travel  by  the  Canadian  Pacific  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. I  am  told  that  American  enterprise  has  already 
largely  repaired  the  destruction  caused  by  the  earth- 
quakes. It  will  interest  me,  no  less  than  you,  to  see  the 
speed  with  which  the  most  terrific  convulsion  of  nature 
is  overcome  by  the  industry  of  man.  Think  of  us! 
Little  pigmies,  little  ants  on  a  planet,  yet  whatever  Na- 
ture destroys  is  repaired  by  us  in  a  minute.  It  is  as  if 
you  stir  up  an  ants'  nest  with  a  stick.  How  quickly 
they  rebuild ! 

' '  Egypt,  Lucia !  How  I  long  to  see  the  valley  of  the 
Tombs  of  the  Kings  with  you!  What  lights  you  will 
strike  for  me!  How,  with  our  imaginations  helping 
each  other,  we  will  conjure  up  out  of  the  past  the 
spectre  of  bygone  civilization !  I  think  of  my  life  be- 
fore I  knew  you  as  the  vision  of  the  dry  bones  in 
Ezekiel.  There  were  facts  then,  there  were  cut  and 
plucked  ideas  then — all  dry  bones,  and  I  wandered 
among  them.  Then  you  came;  bone  went  to  his  bone, 
and  already  there  is  standing  an  army.  But  I  want 
twenty  armies — fifty  armies! 

11  My  darling,  you  don't  appreciate  Japanese  art.  I 
have  often  noticed  that.  I  shall  drag  you  to  Japan; 


THE    CLIMBER  19a 

perhaps  there  I  may  be  of  use  to  you.  Give  me  that 
chance,  Lucia. 

*  *  Then  for  what  we  neither  of  us  know.  Let  us  see 
the  Southern  Islands;  see  where  Stevenson  lived,  and 
where  he  voyaged.  Tusitala,  the  teller  of  tales.  We 
should  both  like  to  see  Apia,  should  we  not,  and 
Vailima,  and  pluck  a  little  of  the  sensitive  plant  which 
he  warred  against  I  Oh  yes,  it  will  take  time,  but  noth- 
ing that  is  worth  doing  is  waste  of  time.  Two  years, 
shall  we  give  ourselves  two  years,  more  or  less  to 
get  what  is  to  be  got  from  other  lands,  from  the  con- 
templation of  other  peoples  ?  And  then,  my  Lucia,  we 
will  come  back  to  make  our  home,  not  complete — 
heaven  forbid  I  should  say  that ! — but  open — open  and 
ready  to  catch  any  thistledown  of  suggestion  that  floats 
by,  learning,  not  by  hearsay  only,  but  by  sight  and  ex- 
perience, all  that  there  is  of  wonder  and  interest  among* 
the  other  civilizations.  And  Russia — we  must  cer- 
tainly go  through  Russia  on  our  way  back  from  Japan. 
And  let  us  end  with  Greece,  and  the  isles  of  Greece. 
The  yacht  can  meet  us  at  Constantinople." 

To  Lucia  now  this  formed  one  concrete  speech.  The 
voice  paused  and  made  one  addition. 

"  And  Minorca  on  the  way  home,"  it  said. 
11  Chopin,  you  know.  That  Polish  exile  in  the  blue 
sea." 

Lucia  knew  that  she  parodied  in  her  own  mind  her 
husband's  voice  and  her  husband's  ideas.  She  made 
it  sound  priggish  to  herself,  but  she  knew  that  she 
might  have  projected  any  part  of  that  programme,  or 
the  whole  of  it,  without  the  slightest  taint  of  priggish- 
ness  coming  in.  He  loved  Chopin,  for  instance,  and 
what  could  be  more  simple  and  natural  than  that  he 


194  THE    CLIMBER 

should  suggest  that  they  should  stop  at  Minorca  (or 
was  it  Majorca?)  on  the  way  home,  to  see  the  place 
where  the  preludes  were  written,  and  where  the  rain 
dropped  on  the  iron  roof!  Yet  she  framed  the  sentence 
he  had  spoken  about  it  in  priggish  fashion.  She,  in 
her  own  mind,  made  him  say  priggish  things  even 
about  San  Francisco.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  she 
who  had  suggested  the  interest  of  seeing  a  town  spring 
up  mushroom-like  again  after  the  catastrophe.  He  had 
merely  adopted  her  suggestion,  and  had — had  phrased 
it.  But  that  made  the  whole  difference. 

He  phrased  things;  that  was  one  of  the  occasional 
clouds.  He  could  not  avoid  seeing  things  in  an  im- 
proving light.  If  they  went  to  the  National  Gallery  to 
see  the  new  Velasquez  he  would  not  look  at  the  picture ; 
he  would  only  look  at  the  impression  the  picture  made 
on  him.  And  all  the  time,  it  was  she,  he  told  her,  who 
had  re-created  the  world  anew  for  him ;  it  was  she  who 
had  put  into  words,  and  therefore  into  being,  his 
earlier  ideals.  She  was  responsible  for  the  realization 
of  what  he  had  dreamed  of — that  cultured,  critical  life 
of  the  educated  and  trained  taster.  He  had  only 
vaguely  striven  after  a  life  that  should  be  less  idle, 
less  card-playing,  than  that  of  the  ambient  world.  So, 
while  the  world  went  to  Goodwood,  Lord  and  Lady 
Brayton  went  to  Japan;  while  the  world  watched 
horses  racing,  they  rode  donkeys  to  the  Tombs  of  the 
Kings;  while  the  world  (which  was  crazy  on  teetotal- 
ism  just  now)  drank  barley  water,  he  and  Lucia  im- 
bibed knowledge. 

But  the  two  years  they  had  given  themselves  to  learn 
all  that  could  possibly  be  learned  by  foreign  travel 
was  over,  and  only  this  morning  he  had  spoken  to  her 


THE    CLIMBER  195 

of  the  home  life  which  they  would  lead  in  the  autumn, 
between  the  time  when  they  came  down  from  Scotland 
and  Christmas.  They  would  be  at  Brixham  a  great 
deal,  and  the  house  would  be  constantly  full.  They 
would  have  a  dozen  big  parties  at  least.  And  as  in 
those  first  dear  days  at  Brixham  she  had  opened  his 
eyes  to  his  opportunities  which  he  had  no  more  than 
dreamed  about,  so  again  now  she  would  have  to  sho\7 
him  the  way.  They  had.  educated  themselves ;  it  was 
time  now  to  let  the  world  have  the  privilege  of  observ- 
ing two  educated  people  at  home,  the  centre  of  a  cul- 
tured, critical  circle. 

The  last  sentence  was  invented  parody ;  he  had  never 
said  that  but  it  was,  though  a  parody  of  other  words 
of  his,  no  parody  of  the  idea  that  prompted  them.  Put 
into  words,  it  was  that  he  meant,  and  that  was  another 
of  the  occasional  clouds.  And  for  this  cloud  Lucia 
knew  that  she  was  largely  responsible.  Deliberately 
and  of  set  purpose,  in  order  to  make  herself  real  to 
him,  in  order  to  attract  him  to  her,  she  had  at  the  be- 
ginning of  their  acquaintance,  which  had  ripened  so 
rapidly,  said  exactly  that  sort  of  thing  to  him  about 
his  life  and  his  opportunities.  She  had  told  him  what 
a  magnificent  role  he  might  play — how  he  might  spread 
culture  round  him  (this  was  scarcely  even  a  parody  of 
what  she  had  said),  and  in  this  idle  and  pleasure-loving 
age  form  a  new  and  wonderful  cult  for  all  that  was 
lovely.  Her  own  sentences,  in  fact,  though  with  the 
stamp  of  his  personality  upon  them,  were  repeated  to 
her.  They  had  inspired  him  in  the  first  instance,  but 
she  did  not  find  them  inspiring  now.  But  she  had  not 
been  altogether  insincere  when  she  first  found  words 
for  his  aims ;  for  before  that  she  had  imagined  for  her- 


196  THE    CLIMBER 

self  a  life  of  brilliance,  not  brilliant  only  from  the 
merely  worldly  point  of  view,  but  keen  with  culture, 
eager  after  what  was  beautiful,  quick  to  perceive. 
And  he  had  taken  her  by  the  hand  and  said:  "  Lead 
me ;  be  my  guide  to  the  beautiful  life. ' ' 

Hitherto,  in  these  two  years  of  travel,  they  had  been 
learning,  but  somehow,  though  in  it  there  had  been 
much  that  was  edifying  (and,  indeed,  hardly  anything 
•that  was  not),  Lucia  had  not  found  anywhere  the  magic 
that  she  had  once  told  him  was  in  Schubert,  in  a  la 
France  rose.  Though  Egypt,  for  instance,  was  most 
interesting,  and  though  a  knowledge  of  the  history  of 
the  Pharaohs  was  undeniably  a  proper  ingredient  in 
that  complex  affair  called  culture,  she  felt  that  neither 
of  them  had  assimilated  the  mysterious  land  of  the  an- 
cient river.  She  did  not  find  Egypt — Egypt  itself,  that 
is  to  say,  Egypt  assimilated — in  the  neat  list  of  dynas- 
ties of  which  Edgar  had  made  two  copies,  one  of  which 
he  pinned  up  above  the  washing-stand  in  her  cabin,  and 
the  other  beside  the  looking  glass  in  his,  so  that  he 
could  learn  it  while  shaving;  nor  was  she  any  nearer 
attaining  it  when  they  said  the  dynasties  to  each  other 
at  breakfast,  nor  when  they  rode  across  the  noon- 
struck  desert  to  where,  on  the  gray  hillside,  Hatasoo 
(eighteenth  dynasty  succeeded  by  Thothmes  III.)  had 
raised  the  temple  of  Deir-el-Bahari.  Nor  did  Egypt 
pass  into  her  blood  even  when  on  the  deck  of  their  daha- 
beeah  after  dinner,  with  the  stars  burning  large  and 
low  down  to  the  horizon,  and  waking  points  of  waver- 
ing reflection  in  the  steel-coloured  water  of  the  river, 
Edgar  repeated  to  her  in  his  precise  and  even  voice 
Shelley's  "  Ozymandias'  Sonnet."  Indeed,  one  thing 
only  in  Egypt,  if  the  truth  was  known  (which  it  was 


THE    CLIMBER  197 

not  to  her  husband),  had  made  any  really  vital  impres- 
sion on  her. 

That  was  when  one  evening  at  Cairo  they  had 
gone  together  to  a  cafe  to  see  native  dancing.  It 
ivas  a  tawdry  affair  enough  in  itself:  there  were  a 
couple  of  Nubian  girls  laden  with  brass  necklaces,  and 
blue  beads  and  wisps  of  staring  Manchester-dyed  cloth- 
ing, who  performed  the  danse  de  venire  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  couple  of  drums  stretched  over  half  a 
tortoise-shell,  and  three  or  four  squealing,  tuneless 
pipes.  The  floor  was  sanded,  the  walls,  decked  with  a 
few  prints  better  not  looked  at  very  closely,  and  soiled 
fragments  of  embroidery,  streamed  with  moisture,  and 
two  or  three  dozen  natives,  with  a  stray  tourist  or  so 
like  themselves,  squatted  on  the  floor,  and  watched 
the  dancers  with  growing  excitement.  The  air  was  hot 
and  stifling,  but  somehow  genuine:  it  was  heavy  with 
the  smell  of  cheap  incense  and  street  scrapings  and 
cigarettes.  They  had  scarcely  been  in  the  place  for  a 
minute,  for  Edgar  had  taken  her  arm  and  led  her  out 
again  as  soon  as  the  style  of  the  entertainment  was 
manifest  to  him,  and  had  apologized  to  her  afterwards 
for  not  finding  out  about  it  first,  and  had  spoken 
severely  to  their  dragoman  for  letting  her  ladyship  go 
into  such  a  place.  And  all  the  time  Lucia  had  longed 
to  stop ;  there  was  nothing  shocking  in  it :  it  was  merely 
primitive.  And  it  was  real,  it  was  human;  it  was, 
though  not  ancient  Egypt,  modern  Egypt,  and  in  that 
one  moment  modern  Egypt  had  become  more  real  to 
her  than  ancient  Egypt  had  ever  been,  even  though 
they  evoked  its  spectre  with  neat  dynastic  lists,  end- 
less visits  to  temples,  and  the  repeating  of  the  most 
suitable  poetry.  They  both  of  them  had  large  quanti- 


198  THE   CLIMBER 

ties  of  its  history  by  heart  before  they  left  Port  Said 
again  to  go  eastward,  but  that  assimilation  which  is 
necessary  before  facts  can  become  the  food  of  culture, 
that  kindling  of  the  blood,  as  with  romance,  had  not  oc- 
curred. Lucia  felt  that  she  had  got  no  more  nourish- 
ment, mentally  speaking,  from  Egypt  than  she  would 
have  got  in  a  bodily  sense  by  swallowing  quantities  of 
Brazil  nuts  without  cracking  their  shells.  Indeed,  the 
simile  might  be  pressed  a  little  further.  Instead  of  re- 
ceiving nourishment,  she  was  conscious  merely  of  a 
violent  mental  indigestion,  and  the  very  mention  of  a 
temple  gave  her  qualms  of  nausea.  She  had  digested 
just  that  one  thing — the  grinning  Nubian  dancing 
girls,  the  heat,  the  eager  faces  of  the  natives,  the  good, 
stuffy,  sweet  smell  of  living  things — hot,  southern  liv- 
ing things. 

It  was  the  same  wherever  they  went.  Lucia,  quick 
to  learn  and  retentive  of  memory,  was  a  positive  en- 
cyclopaedia of  Indian  affairs,  of  its  art,  its  history,  its 
flora,  and  its  fauna  before  they  touched  at  Bombay. 
But  there  was  the  assimilation  still  wanting;  the 
country  did  not  get  into  her  blood,  though  here  again 
she  had  a  vital  moment,  when  at  the  close  of  a  day  of 
great  heat  they  saw  Delhi  smouldering  under  the  dusty 
crimson  sky  of  sunset. 

But  Edgar,  though  she  did  not  believe  that  he  as- 
similated any  more  than  she  did,  seemed  not  to  want 
to  assimilate.  It  was  enough  for  him,  apparently,  to 
place  in  the  well-ordered  shelves  of  his  mind  the 
volumes  of  knowledge,  now  profusely  illustrated  by  the 
memory  of  the  places  they  had  seen.  To  sit  with  her 
at  Colonus,  and  read  Mr.  Murray's  translation  of  the 
famous  chorus,  was  sufficient;  that  appeared  to  make 


THE   CLIMBER  199 

Colonus  his.  Or  to  read  the  account,  in  Mr.  Grote's 
history,  of  the  battle  of  Marathon  while  seated  on  the 
shore  of  the  little  bay  was  to  make  Marathon  his  own. 
He  went  even  further  than  this.  On  one  day  of  the 
sudden  Greek  spring  he  repeated  to  her  the  stanzas 
of  the  first  chorus  from  Swinburne's  "  Atalanta  in 
Calydon. ' '  That,  for  a  moment,  reached  her,  and  when 
he  recited  the  line,  "  Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring 
begins,"  and  she  saw  the  thickets  and  broken  ground 
at  the  foot  of  Pentelicus  starred  with  the  crimson 
anemone,  and  feathered  with  orchids,  her  emotion  was 
stirred;  the  line  became  part  of  her  and  beat  in  her 
blood.  But  Minorca  (it  turned  out  to  be  Minorca)  had 
been  a  dismal  failure  as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  He 
had  played  her  the  prelude  where  the  rain  drops  on 
the  roof,  but  the  piano  on  the  yacht  was  not  in  very 
good  tune,  and  she  felt  no  more  than  she  had  felt  when 
she  played  it  on  Aunt  Cathie's  piano  at  Fair  View. 
But  this  performance,  very  meritorious  in  itself,  for 
he  played  well,  had  been  quite  sufficient  for  him.  He 
had  put  Chopin  into  his  bag.  That  was  just  it ;  he  put 
everything  into  a  bag,  having  wrung  the  neck  of  each 
thing  first.  His  bag  bulged  with  dead,  genuine  speci- 
mens. Lucia's  bag  was  nearly  empty,  but  what  there 
was  in  it  was  alive,  and  pulsating  with  her  own  blood. 
The  tawdry  Nubian  dancing  girls  were  there,  the  smell 
of  Egypt  was  there ;  there  was  a  dusty  crimson  sunset, 
a  wild  thicket  at  the  foot  of  Pentelicus.  And  privately 
she  thought  that,  little  as  she  had  really  got  from  this 
long  tour,  she  had  got  far  more  than  he.  He,  if  you 
will,  had  learned  a  dozen  new  languages;  the  defect 
was  that  he  had  nothing  worth  saying  to  say  in  them, 
while  she  had  but  a  few  babbling  words  in  the  tongues 


200  THE    CLIMBEE 

in  which  he  was  so  glib,  but  her  words  meant  some- 
thing; they  signified. 

There  was  one  cloud  more  dangerous  than  all  these, 
which  she  thought  about  also.  It  was  no  bigger  than 
a  man's  hand,  but  it  was  well  above  the  horizon  at  the 
close  of  their  second  year  of  marriage.  Sometimes  she 
questioned  herself  as  to  whether,  if  she  had  gone  to  all 
these  magical  lands,  either  alone,  or  with  Maud,  or 
even  with  Aunt  Cathie,  she  would  not  have  had  a  richer 
harvesting.  And  as  soon  as  she  asked  herself  that 
question,  there  was  no  longer  any  need  to  ask  it,  for  it 
was  already  answered.  There  was  something  in  Edgar 
that,  for  her,  killed  romance.  More  than  once,  on  an 
evening  on  the  Nile,  for  instance,  she  had  felt  the 
romance  of  the  ancient  mysterious  land  floating  like 
some  dim  beautiful  bird  above  her,  drawing  nearer  to 
her  in  the  dusk.  Then  Edgar  with  an  apt  quotation, 
or  a  few  remarks  about  Amen-hotep,  had  shot  it  quite 
dead,  so  that  not  a  single  heart's  beat  was  left  in  it 
when  it  fell,  a  bundle  of  bones,  at  her  feet.  He,  satis- 
fied both  with  his  fresh  addition  to  the  bag,  and  also 
with  Lucia's  lip-appreciation,  so  to  speak,  of  his 
marksmanship,  remained  completely  unconscious  of 
his  fatal  aim,  but  Lucia  already  wondered  what  would 
happen  when  that  man's-hand  cloud  cast  a  shadow  over 
him  also,  when  he  saw  that  he,  who  should  have  been 
for  her  incarnate  romance,  was  the  agent  who,  not  in 
Egypt  only,  or  in  Greece,  but  wherever  the  two  were 
together,  unintentionally  and  unerringly  destroyed  all 
romance  for  Lucia. 

Probably  he  would  never  know  that ;  Lucia  felt  that 
it  would  be  a  supreme  stupidity  on  her  part  if  she  let 
him. 


THE    CLIMBER  201 

But  in  spite  of  these  clouds  she  was  extraordinarily 
content.  She  had  not  asked  life  to  give  her  romance, 
but  success,  and  that,  as  far  as  she  had  gone,  it  lavished 
on  her.  She  had,  from  the  social  points  of  view,  that 
most  brilliant  gift  of  all — namely,  the  faculty  of  enjoy- 
ing herself — compared  to  which  wit  and  mere  clever- 
ness are  but  as  the  copper  change  of  a  new  sovereign. 
From  the  first  moment  of  her  appearance  in  town  as 
Edgar's  fiancee,  the  whole  world  saw  that  she  had  that 
splendid  birthright;  wherever  she  went,  whatever  she 
did,  she  brought  with  her  the  splendour  of  her  pleas- 
ure, the  invigoration  of  her  superb  spirits.  Even  in 
the  scarcely  detached  limits  of  Fair  View,  it  has  been 
seen  how,  when  she  took  herself  in  hand  and  deter- 
mined to  make  the  best  of  her  cabined  circumstances, 
she  so  quickened  the  lives  of  her  aunts  that  the  one 
learned  French  and  the  other  a  new  patience,  and  now, 
when  every  door  was  open  to  her,  and  everything  that 
money  and  youth  and  health  can  offer  was  waiting  her 
pleasure,  it  was  little  wonder  that  the  outpouring  flood 
of  her  delight  was  irresistible.  In  the  first  few  weeks 
that  she  had  spent  in  town  a  year  ago  she,  knowing 
that  she  was  new  to  the  game  of  enjoying  yourself  as 
much  as  you  possibly  can,  had  watched  with  attention 
and  perception  what  people  who  were  successful  at  it 
did  and  did  not  do — what  were  the  rules,  in  fact — and 
it  took  her  a  very  short  time  to  perceive  that  there 
were  no  rules  at  all  that  she  was  in  the  least  likely 
to  transgress.  A  man  might  not  wear  his  hair  long 
(unless  a  pianist)  or  cheat  at  cards;  a  woman — there 
really  was  nothing  she  might  not  do,  except  be  brought 
into  the  divorce  court.  Apart  from  these  things  the 
only  road  to  success  and  popularity  was  to  enjoy  your- 


202  THE   CLIMBER 

self.  Plenty  of  people  get  on  excellently  by  pretending 
to  enjoy  themselves;  Lucia  in  this,  at  any  rate,  was 
genuine — she  was  in  love  with  life. 

This  sketched  analysis  must  be  taken  as  the  dissec- 
tion of  her  consciousness  of  her  attitude  towards  ex- 
ternal things  as  she  stood  looking  at  the  backs  of  the 
vellum  edition  of  the  Kelmscott  Press,  and  from  it,  it 
will  be  seen  that  the  last  two  years  had  altered  her 
very  little,  but  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  lived  a  dim, 
subaqueous  existence  until  the  time  of  her  marriage, 
like  the  chrysalis  of  some  water-breeding  fly.  Then 
the  moment  had  come ;  she  had  floated  up  to  the  sunlit 
surface,  had  crawled  out  from  her  confining  sheath, 
and  had  spread  gauzy,  iridescent  wings  to  the  summer 
air.  Not  that  she  ever  floated  aimlessly  about;  it  was 
no  brainless  life  that  she  so  strenuously  enjoyed,  with 
nothing  but  a  waltz  tune  singing  in  her  head,  and  noth- 
ing but  her  own  replete  engagement  book  to  read.  She 
enjoyed  with  her  brain  as  well  as  with  her  body,  look- 
ing not  only  with  her  eyes  on  the  kaleidoscope  of  life, 
but  interested,  almost  absorbed,  in  the  instincts  and 
impulses  that  made  it  move  and  glitter.  She  read 
much,  she  studied  drama  and  music,  she  loved  the 
rapier  flash  of  argument  and  criticism,  and  if  she  lay 
awake  at  night,  it  was  not  with  the  memory  of  a  waltz, 
but  with  the  excitement  of  some  well-played  scene  in 
a  play,  or  the  relentless  tragedy  of  the  Dusk  of  the 
Gods.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  lay  awake  very 
seldom. 

Lucia,  after  an  interval  of  a  year,  had  been  in  Lon- 
don only  a  fortnight,  and  that  fortnight  had  been  very 
busy.  In  fact,  but  for  a  hand-press  and  a  smile  of 
genuine  pleasure  at  a  dance,  she  had  not  yet  seen 


THE    CLIMBER  203 

Maud.  That  was  nearly  a  week  ago,  but  on  that  oc- 
casion she  had  urged  Maud  to  come  to  lunch  any  day, 
since  she  made  a  rule  always  to  be  in  at  lunch.  But 
no  sign  had  come  from  Maud  till  this  morning  when, 
over  the  telephone,  she  proposed  coming  in  to  see 
Lucia  about  five,  if  she  would  naturally  be  in  then,  and 
they  could  have  a  talk  together.  Lucia  had  been  just 
a  little  piqued  by  Maud's  apparent  indifference  to  the 
fact  that  she  could  come  and  have  lunch  any  day ;  of  old 
she  felt  that  Maud  would  probably  have  appeared  not 
only  any,  but  every  day ;  indeed,  before  coming  to  Lon- 
don this  year,  Lucia  had  hoped  that,  though  it  would 
be  delightful  to  see  her  old  friend  again,  Maud  would 
understand  that  one's  time  was  really  not  one's  own, 
and  that  the  old  long  talks,  prolonged  into  the  night, 
and  the  mornings  spent  together,  were  out  of  Lucia's 
power  now.  She  did  not  mean  to  drop  Maud  at  all — 
nothing  was  further  from  her  thoughts;  but  in  these 
weeks  of  whir  and  rush,  one's  duties  had  to  come  first, 
one's  pleasures  afterwards. 

But  she  awaited  Maud's  arrival  to-day  with  eager- 
ness; indeed,  she  did  not  like  to  think  that  they  had 
been  in  the  same  town  for  two  weeks  and  had  only 
once  set  eyes  on  each  other.  She  felt  inclined  to  blame 
her  friend  a  little  for  this;  Maud  could  not  possibly 
have  nearly  as  much  to  do  as  she,  and  yet  she  had 
never  once  come  near  her.  Yet,  after  all,  perhaps  it 
was  not  her  fault:  everybody  was  up  to  the  eyes  in 
June;  June  was  a  close  time  for  friends.  You  only 
saw  a  million  acquaintances.  But  when  London  was 
over,  she  would  insist  on  Maud's  coming  with  them  on 
the  yacht,  or  spending  a  fortnight  at  least  with  them 
in  Scotland.  Real  friendships,  so  Lucia  considered, 


204  THECLIMBEE 

must  not  be  lightly  broken.  She  herself  had  not 
changed  at  all  towards  Maud;  she  was  quite  as  willing- 
as  ever  to  be  adored.  But  even  now,  when  Maud  had 
made  this  appointment  for  five,  she  was  late.  The  god- 
dess was  waiting;  why  "  lagged  the  tardy  wor- 
shipper "? 

Lucia  never  wasted-  time  on  regrets,  and  now  she  be- 
gan making  out  the  arrangement  of  the  table  for  her 
little  party  this  evening,  while  she  waited  for  her 
friend.  It  was  going  to  be  quite  small,  but  she  pro- 
posed to  enjoy  it  very  much ;  and  in  asking  her  guests 
she  had  told  them  all  that  nobody  must  go  on  to  dances 
or  music  afterwards  till  half-past  eleven  at  the  earliestr 
since  she  wanted  a  talk  with  everybody.  But  the  table 
could  not  be  completely  arranged,  since  Edgar  had 
gone  out  to  seek  a  man  instead  of  letting  her  order  one 
by  telephone.  She  could  not  tell  who  he  might  be;  he 
might  be  important,  or  he  might  not.  But,  after  all, 
it  was  going  to  be  a  perfectly  informal  evening,  so 
whoever  he  was,  he  must  sit  on  her  left  and  take  in 
Fay  Alderson,  who  was  amusing  enough  for  anybody. 
That  was  the  best  way  to  settle  it,  and 

Ah,  Maud  at  last.  Lucia  got  up,  feeling  very  cordial, 
and  putting  an  added  touch  of  eagerness  to  her  man- 
ner to  show  that  she  was  not  hurt  by  Maud's  neglect 
of  her. 

"  Ah,  you  darling,"  she  said,  "  how  delightful  to 
see  you!  Here  am  I,  quite,  quite  alone,  according  to 
your  orders,  with  all  my  engagements  until  dinner 
ruthlessly  cancelled,  so  that  we  might  be  alone  and 
have  a  real,  real  talk.  I  am  at  home  to  nobody,  Rack- 
son,  whoever  it  is.  No,  don't  sit  down  at  once,  dear; 
I  want  to  have  a  good  look  at  you  first.  Maud,  I  al- 


THE    CLIMBER  205 

most  wish  I  had  sore  eyes:  they  would  be  quite  well 
again  now.  There  now,  you  may  sit  down:  you  have 
not  changed  a  bit  in  this  last  year.  You  are  absolutely 
my  own  Maud." 

Lucia  almost  felt  all  she  said.  Maud  was  such  a 
satisfactory  person;  she  was  so  genuine,  so  sterling, 
you  could  completely  rely  on  her.  She,  on  her  side, 
too,  was  delighted  to  see  Lucia,  and  the  old  glamour 
and  charm  asserted  themselves  at  once.  But  she  was  a 
little  embarrassed  and  had  not  the  gift,  like  Lucia,  of 
working  the  embarrassment  out  of  her  system  by 
voluble  but  slightly  exaggerated  speech.  The  exag- 
geration was  only  slight,  but  it  was  there,  and  con- 
sisted in  the  fact  that  in  the  matter  of  friendship  Lucia 
took  the  part,  to-day,  rather  of  the  wooer  than  the 
wooed,  knowing  that  she  reversed  their  positions. 
Maud  took  refuge  in  sincerity  instead. 

"It  is  dreadful  that  I  haven't  set  eyes  on  you  all 
these  weeks,"  she  said,  "  for  I  don't  count  meeting 
you  at  a  ball  as  setting  eyes  on  you.  One  never  truly 
meets  a  friend  at  a  ball ;  people  don 't  go  to  balls,  they 
only  send  their  society-wraiths  there." 

There  was  a  neatness  of  phrase  about  this  that  sur- 
prised Lucia.  Maud  was  not  apt  in  speech;  she  was 
reticent,  and  found  expression  difficult,  and  this  little 
bit  of  social  criticism  was  astonishingly  trenchant. 
Lucia  loved  all  that  was  clean-cut. 

11  Ah,  that  is  quite  brilliant,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
long  wanted  to  know  what  gave  the  air  of  unreality  to 
all  parties.  You  have  absolutely  defined  it;  there  is 
nobody  there;  it  is  only  the  society- wraiths  of  people 
one  knows  that  crowd  the  room.  Yet  is  there  nobody 
who  is  genuine  all  the  time?  I  should  have  thought 


206  THE    CLIMBER 

that  you  were.  To  have  moods  doesn't  mean  that  you 
are  not  genuine,  for  moods  are  not  poses.  Though  one 
is  all  sorts  of  different  people,  they  are  all  oneself. 
But  don't  let  us  talk  about  abstract  questions  yet.  I 
want  to  know  all  your  year's  history;  I  want  you  to 
know  mine.  Let  us  talk  about  ourselves  entirely  for 
half  an  hour." 

Maud  smiled  at  her  with  that  old  sweetness  and 
serenity  that  Lucia  knew  so  well,  and  at  this  moment 
somehow  envied.  Three  years  ago  Maud  had  been  the 
fairy  godmother  who  gave  Lucia  London  treats  and 
though  the  positions  were  reversed,  for  Lucia  quite 
meant  to  give  her  old  friend  treats  now,  she  wondered 
if  it  was  really  possible  to  do  anything  for  one  who  was 
so  evidently  happy.  That  word  came  to  Maud's  lips, 
too. 

"  Of  course,  I  want  to  know  everything  in  detail," 
she  said,  "  but  it  is  all  summed  up  in  a  word.  I  do 
hope  you  are  quite  happy,  Lucia. ' ' 

Suddenly  Lucia  thought  she  was  not  if  she  compared 
herself  to  Maud.  She  had  certain  clouds,  after  all; 
Maud  looked  as  if  she  had  none.  She  enjoyed  herself 
quite  enormously,  and  never  till  this  moment  had  she 
wondered  whether  that  was  the  same  as  happiness. 
For  the  present,  in  any  case,  she  assumed  that  it 
was. 

"  Happy?  Yes,  brilliantly  happy,"  she  said.  "  It 
has  all  been  the  most  wonderful  success,  and  I  am  sure 
Edgar  is  happy,  too.  We  both  want  still ;  that  is  such 
a  good  thing,  for  I  think  that  happiness  really  ends 
when  you  have  all  you  wish  for.  That  must  be  so 
dull." 


THE   CLIMBER  207 

Maud  thought  she  could  only  be  speaking  of  one 
thing,  namely  her  childlessness. 

"  Ah  yes,  of  course,  dear,  I  understand,"  she  said. 
"  But  when  you  have  one  child,  which  pray  God  you 
may,  you  will  want  another.  And  then  you  will  want 
to  see  them  grow  up." 

Lucia  had  not  been  thinking  of  this  at  all;  all  that 
was  in  her  mind  was  the  little  clouds  that  have  been 
spoken  of.  But  she  picked  up  her  cue  instantaneously. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  there  is  that  big  want,"  she  said; 
"  but  even  apart  from  that  it  is  nice  to  know  that  the 
little  wants  are  not  dimmed  or  diminished.  Oh,  Maud, 
delightful  as  all  our  wanderings  have  been,  it  is  nice 
to  settle  down.  I  want — oh,  I  want  to  squeeze  every 
ounce  out  of  life.  I  want  everything,  all  the  arts,  all 
the  witty  and  beautiful  things  of  the  world,  to  yield 
their  uttermost.  And  the  amazing  and  glorious  thing 
is  that  they  never  can.  Even  while  you  suck  one  orange 
another  is  ripening.  Worldly?  I  don't  think  it  is 
worldly.  It  is  to  make  the  best  possible  out  of  this 
world,  to  use  all  that  is  given  us." 

Maud  laughed. 

"  Anyhow,  you  haven't  changed  in  the  least,"  she 
said.  * '  You  are  still  quite  deliciously  rapacious. ' ' 

Here  again  was  neat  phrasing.  Lucia  just  noted  it, 
but  her  egotism  for  the  time  was  in  excelsis,  and  she 
went  on. 

"  That  is  what  dear  Edgar  does  not  quite  under- 
stand," she  said.  "  He  is  not  insatiable  as  I  am.  He 
does  not  want  all  there  is.  I  told  him  so  the  other 
night,  and  it  rather .  puzzled  him.  I  want  him  to  get 
me  the  Pleiades  to  wear  in  my  hair ;  I  want  to  wear  the 
moon  as  a  pendant  round  my  neck ;  I  want  Saturn  and 


208  THE   CLIMBER 

Jupiter  to  shine  in  my  girdle;  I  want  Venus.  But  I 
was  out  of  breath,  and  so  I  told  him  I  would  be  Venus 
myself.  And  there  is  so  little  time;  the  years  pass  so 
quickly;  since  I  married  two  have  already  gone,  and 
I  haven't  begun.  I  know  I  have  all  the  time  there  is, 
but  they  ought  to  have  made  much  more.  The  days 
become  weeks,  and  the  weeks  months,  and  there  are 
only  twelve  months  in  a  year,  and  even  if  I  live  to  be 
eighty  I  have  only  fifty-seven  years  more.  And  by 
then  I  shall  be  old  and  ugly,  and  probably  deaf,  but  I 
hope  not  dumb,  and  all  the  sap  will  have  run  out  of 
my  life,  and  I  shall  be  raddled  in  the  face  and  rheu- 
matic in  the  joints.  Oh,  it's  damnable!  Have  some 
more  tea." 

Lucia  laughed,  then  stopped  abruptly. 

11  I  don't  know  why  I  laugh,"  she  said.  "  It  is  all 
serious  enough,  and  most  depressingly  true.  I  am 
made  that  way,  and  it's  not  my  fault,  and  it's  no  use 
blaming  me.  You  might  as  well  blame  a  colt  because 
it  isn't  a  cow.  Thank  goodness  I'm  not  a  cow.  There 
are  only  two  sorts  of  people :  colts  and  cows.  The  cows 
are  the  good  ones,  who  are  quite  content,  and  give 
quantities  of  warm,  white  milk  to  other  people.  The  rest 
are  colts ;  they  want  to  kick  up  their  heels  and  snuff  the 
morning  air  and  neigh,  and  then  run  as  hard  as  they 
possibly  can  because  they  have  such  beautiful  limbs. 
Already,  you  know,  to  do  me  justice,  I  have  run  a  good 
long  way.  Three  years  ago  I  was  in  that  awful  little 
Fair  View,  with  the  railway  embankment  behind,  and 
that  was  all  I  had,  living  with  two  perfectly  delightful 
old  aunts,  it  is  true.  But  to  live  with  aunts  wasn't 
much  for  a  girl  who  even  then  wanted  the  heavenly 
constellations  to  stick  into  her  bodice.  And  the  horizon 


THE    CLIMBER  209 

was  bounded — except  when  you  were  a  darling,  and 
gave  me  a  heavenly  week  in  town — by  the  roofs  of  the 
Laburnums  and  the  Hollies  and  the  Pomegranates. 
How  I  stifled !  It  seems  to  me  perfectly  incredible  that 
it  was  me — this  me — who  used  to  talk  Frenh  with  one 
sloppy  girl,  and  play  duets  with  another,  while  Aunt 
Cathie  beat  time.  And  those  were  the  comparatively 
palmy  days." 

Lucia  paused  a  moment,  the  hour  of  sincerity  was 
here ;  she  spoke  that  which  she  was. 

"  Before  that,"  she  said — "  before  that  I  lived  in 
Brixham,  and  there  was,  so  I  thought,  nothing  what- 
ever there  of  any  sort  or  kind.  There  was  really. 
There  were  all  the  materials  of  what  I  have  called  the 
palmy  days,  but  for  a  year  or  two  I  lived  there — this 
identical,  actual  I — without  seeing  anything  that  broke 
the  endless  gray  monotony  of  my  days,  or  any  way  of 
escape.  And  what  pleasant  memories  and  associations 
were  mine !  A  home  broken  up,  a  father  dying  in  dis- 
grace. Maud,  it  is  awful  to  confess  it,  but  all  that  really 
went  on  in  my  emotions  concerning  him  was  something 
very  like  hate.  Otherwise  I  had  no  emotions  except  al- 
ways the  frantic  sense  of  wanting,  and  the  utter  in- 
capability of  ever  getting.  I  held  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
skeins  of  brown  wool — oh,  everything  was  brown — and 
she  made  headrests  of  them,  because  antimacassars 
was  a  vulgar  word.  I  know  it  was  quite  suitable, 
really;  she  had  an  antimacassar  mind,  and  warded  life 
off.  Yes,  that's  what  she  did,  she  warded  life  off — 
shut  the  windows  and  drew  the  curtains  so  that  by  no 
chance  could  it  ever  come  in.  Then  she  sat  down  and 
played  Miss  Milligan.  After  which,  Miss  M.  being 
shy,  and  not  wishing  to  come  out,  we  all  kissed  each 


210  THE   CLIMBER 

other  and  went  to  bed,  to  prepare  ourselves  for  the 
duties  and  fatigues  of  the  next  intolerable  day." 

Lucia  drew  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  making 
what  she  called  an  "  archdeacon  face." 

"  Not  that  we  hadn't  our  times  of  delirious  excite- 
ment," she  said,  "  which  gave  us  headaches.  There 
were  the  garden  parties.  The  Bishop  came  once,  and 
the  garden,  being  exactly  eight  feet  by  ten  (I  used  to 
play  lawn  tennis  in  it  with  Aunt  Cathie,  who  wore 
sand-shoes)  and  there  being  nine  people  present  as 
well  as  a  tea-table,  it  was  quite  a  crush.  The  Bishop 
drank  three  cups  of  tea,  and  said  the  flower-bed  was  a 
blaze  of  colour.  He  preached  next  Sunday  about  the 
gardens  of  our  souls,  which  made  us  feel  public  char- 
acters. Aunt  Elizabeth  almost  deprecated  such  pub- 
licity. Everybody  knew  he  had  called  the  flower-bed 
a  blaze  of  colour." 

Lucia  suddenly  became  quite  serious. 

'  *  Oh,  Maud,  I  could  cry  to  think  of  the  wasted  years ! 
What  wouldn't  I  give  for  just  the  time  I  spent  there, 
or  the  time  that  Aunt  Elizabeth  is  spending  now !  She 
doesn't  care  for  it.  She  gets  no  enjoyment  from  it,  any 
more  than  she  gets  from  the  best  silver  teapot  which 
was  presented  to  my  grandfather  the  Dean,  and  is 
never  taken  out  of  its  tissue  paper.  It's  not  fair.  I 
grudge  people  having  things  they  don't  use  and  don't 
enjoy,  when  I  could  use  them  so  beautifully.  They 
ought  to  be  mine — they  really  ought." 

Lucia  had  not  changed  in  the  least;  Maud  felt  that 
more  strongly  than  ever  at  the  end  of  this  brilliant 
piece  of  egotism,  but  she  had  certainly  developed. 
Whether  that  development  was  satisfactory  or  not 
Maud  did  not,  for  the  present,  inquire.  The  charm  of 


THE   CLIMBER  211 

Lucia's  vitality  held  her  again;  it  was  mental  cham- 
pagne to  be  with  anyone  who  felt  so  keenly,  who  de- 
sired so  greatly. 

She  laughed. 

' '  Then  would  you  propose  to  kill  everyone  who  was 
not  enjoying  himself,"  she  asked,  "  and  put  the  years 
he  would  otherwise  have  lived  to  your  credit  balance?  " 

Lucia's  eyes  lit  up. 

*  *  Ah,  if  it  could  be  done !  ' '  she  said.  * ;  Surely  it 
would  be  an  admirable  arrangement.  It  would  be  a 
true  kindness  to  put  them  out  of  their  boredom,  just 
as  you  put  suffering  animals  out  of  their  pain.  Can't 
we  manage  it?  Edgar  shall  bring  in  a  Bill  for  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  bored  in  the  House  of  Lords.  It  won't 
be  a  party  measure.  Besides,  being  bored  is  one  of  the 
worst  social  crimes;  it  is  an  infectious  disease,  too. 
You  catch  it,  if  it  is  about,  unless  you  are  very  strong. 
Ah!  I  should  take  away  from  everybody  not  only  the 
time  they  don't  enjoy,  but  the  things  they  don't  enjoy. 
Somebody  would  be  the  happier,  I  shouldn't  wonder, 
for  Aunt  Elizabeth's  teapot.  Certainly,  he  ought  to 
have  it,  then." 

"  Leave  me  something,"  said  Maud. 

"  Yes,  dear;  you  shall  be  left  all  you  have  got,  and 
shall  have  heaps  of  things  besides.  You  look  tremend- 
ously happy.  I  hope  you  have  been  getting  all  sorts  of 
nice  things." 

"  I  have  been.  And  I'm  going  to  get  the  nicest 
of  all." 

"  Maud!  tell  me  at  once!  Why  haven't  you 
told  me?  " 

"  You  really  haven't  given  me  an  opportunity,"  re- 
marked Maud. 


212  THE   CLIMBER 

*  *  I  give  you  one  instantly.  I  will  never  open  my  lips 
again.  I  guess,  of  course,  you  are  going  to  be  married. 
How  very  nice!  Women  never  begin  to  count  until 
they  are  married.  Quick!  Who  is  it?  " 

"  Charlie  Lindsay.  He  is  a  cousin  of  Lord  Bray- 
ton's.  But  I  don't  think  you  know  him,  though  I  think 
you  met  him  once  at  Brayton's." 

"  And  why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?  " 

"  Because  he  didn't  tell  me  before.  He  only  told  me 
yesterday.  Nobody  knows  yet,  except  you.  I  had  to 
tell  you  at  once,  Lucia,  because " 

Maud  paused  a  moment ;  words  were  always  difficult 
to  her  when  she  felt  deeply. 

"  Because  I  knew  you  must  often  have  wondered, 
dear,  whether  you  had  come  between  me  and  my  happi- 
ness. I  was  such  a  little  brute  to  you  down  at  Little- 
stone,  when  I  didn't  instantly  congratulate  you  when 
you  told  me  you  were  engaged.  I  know  you  must  often 
have  causelessly  reproached  yourself.  So  I  had  to  tell 
you  at  once." 

Lucia  came  and  knelt  down  by  her  friend. 

"  You  darling!  "  she  said.  "  It  is  sweet  to  be  be- 
lieved in  like  that.  Maud,  you  are  the  best  friend  a 
woman  ever  had.  Now ' 

Lucia,  contrary  to  custom,  found  it  hard  to  proceed. 

11  Now  perhaps  you  will  think  me  utterly  heartless," 
she  said,  "  but  I  will  confess.  I  didn't  reproach  my- 
self. It  was  inevitable;  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  can't 
help  love,  can  you?  You  said  so  to  me  immediately — 
immediately  afterward.  Now  I  want  to  ask  such  heaps 
of  intimate  questions." 

"  You  needn't  ask  the  intimate  questions,"  said 
Maud.  "  I  can  give  you  the  intimate  answers.  I  don't 


THE    CLIMBER  213 

think  my  first — you- know — was; — was  much.  It  wasn't 
like  this,  anyhow.  There  is  nobody  else  but  Charlie. 
That,  frankly,  was  why  I  haven't  been  to  see  you  these 
two  or  three  weeks.  Wasn't  it  horrible  of  me?  I  sim- 
ply didn't  want  you.'* 

"  And  now?  "  demanded  Lucia. 

"  I  am  so  happy  that  I  want  everybody,  and  you 
most  of  all.  So  I  came. ' ' 

"  And  you've  allowed  me  to  run  on  about  my  little 
wee  concerns,  while  you  were  bottling  this  up?  "  said 
Lucia.  "  How  could  you?  " 

Maud  smiled  deep  down  in  her  brown  eyes. 

'  *  Oh,  it  was  such  fun !  ' '  she  said.  '  *  When  you  were 
small,  didn  't  you  ever  put  an  arm  out  of  bed  on  a  cold 
night,  to  have  the  joy  of  putting  it  back  again?  I  kept 
myself  in  the  cold  just  like  that,  hugging  myself  to 
think  how  nice  and  warm  it  would  be  when  I  told  you. 
Oh,  Lucia,  I  am  so  happy — so  utterly  happy." 

And  once  again  Lucia  wondered  whether,  compared 
to  this,  she  was  happy.  This  time  she  knew  she  was  not. 
And  she  felt  herself  envious  of  her  friend's  bliss;  she 
wanted  it  herself. 


CHAPTEE  X 

TV/TAUD  had  scarcely  gone  when  Lucia's  husband 
•*••*•  came  in.  Most  opportunely  as  he  entered  she 
had  just  taken  up  a  volume  of  the  Kelmscott  Chaucer, 
and  was  reading  it.  The  action  had  not  been  entirely 
spontaneous;  she  expected  him  to  be  back  very  soon, 
and  it  would  certainly  please  him  to  see  her  already 
using  his  gift  to  her.  Lucia  never  neglected  the  small 
change  of  kindness  and  pleasure-giving,  just  as  she 
never  forgot  to  tip  a  porter.  She  just  smiled  and  nod- 
ded at  him  as  he  entered,  and  went  on  reading ;  it  would 
please  him  better  to  see  her  absorbed  in  the  book  than 
that  she  should  pay  any  attention  to  him.  He  paused 
behind  her  chair  a  moment,  saw  what  she  was  reading, 
and  passed  on  very  complacently  to  the  tea-table. 

Then  Lucia  roused  herself. 

'  *  Yes,  dear,  I  '11  come  and  give  you  tea  in  a  moment, ' ' 
she  said,  '  *  but  oh,  Edgar,  I  must  just  read  you  a  line. 
Listen — 

"  '  Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breathe 
Enspired  hath  in  every  holte  and  heethe 
The  tender  croppes  and  the  yonge"  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  ironne 
And  smale  fowles  maken  melodic. 
That  slepen  alle  the  night  with  open  eye.' 

Oh,  is  not  spring  there?  Do  you  see  the  daffodils? 
There,  I  will  give  you  tea.  I  won't  neglect  you  for  the 
daffodils.  Ring,  darling,  will  you!  This  tea  has  been 
standing,  and  I  will  not  permit  you  to  drink  tepid 
tannin. ' ' 

214 


THE   CLIMBER  215 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  head  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  I  see  my  daffodils,"  he  said. 

He  rang  the  bell  and  came  back  to  her. 

"  What  magic  there  is  in  words,"  he  said.  "  Words 
always  seem  to  me  to  have  a  music  and  a  colour  of  their 
own  as  melodious  as  a  symphony,  as  vivid  as  a  Gior- 
gione.  It  isn't  only  what  they  mean;  it  is  the  words 
themselves.  Let  me  cap  your  Chaucer — 

"  '  Der  Winter  floh,  und  Lenz  ist  da.'" 

Yes,  he  had  capped  it,  as  you  cap  a  candle  with  an 
extinguisher.  Out  it  went.  It  was  his  very  precision 
of  thought  that  deprived  it  of  all  its  meaning. 

"  And  have  you  cooped  yourself  up  all  afternoon!  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  haven't  stirred.  I  expected  Maud,  you  see,  and 
then  I  had  my  new  friends. ' '  And  she  nodded  and  just 
kissed  her  hand  to  the  regiment  of  the  Kelmscott  Press. 

"  Oh,  and  it  is  too  exciting  about  Maud,"  she  said. 
* '  She  told  me  that  it  was  to  be  announced  to-morrow, 
that  I  might  tell  you  now.  She 's  engaged.  Guess  I  No, 
don't  guess,  because  you  might  guess  right,  and  then  I 
should  be  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  telling  you. 
Charlie  Lindsay,  my  scarcely-seen  cousin." 

"  Ah,  lucky  fellow!  "  said  Edgar.  "  I  am  delighted, 
though;  Miss  Eddis  will  be  exactly  the  wife  for  him. 
Charlie  is  too  much  of  the  disinterested  critic  with  re- 
gard to  life,  instead  of  being  an  actor  in  it.  She  will 
make  a  man  of  him  instead  of  letting  him  remain  a 
Skimpole  all  his  life.  I  like  Charlie  very  much,  but  he 
is  a  little  Skimpolian." 

"  Oh,  but  I  hope  Maud  won't  entirely  cure  him,"  she 


216  THE   CLIMBER 

said.  "  Skimpoles  aren't  common;  I  think  they  should 
be  preserved.  It  is  rather  nice  that  there  should  be  a 
few  people  with  no  sense  of  duty  or  responsibility. 
They  make  one  feel  young." 

Edgar  did  not  in  the  least  agree  with  this. 

"  We  will  discuss  that,"  he  said  (and  instantly 
Lucia  felt  as  if  she  never  wanted  to  hear  the  word 
Skimpole  again),  "  though  I  do  not  think  you  could 
really  justify  what  you  say,  dear.  By  the  way,  a  curi- 
ous coincidence.  The  first  man  I  saw  to-day  at  the  club 
was  Charlie,  and  being  afraid  I  might  not  see  anyone 
else,  I  asked  him  to  dine  to-night  to  fill  your  vacant 
place.  He  had  another  engagement,  and  though  I 
urged  him  not  to  throw  it  over  when  I  heard  that,  he 
really  insisted  on  coming.  He  said  the  other  engage- 
ment was  a  nightmare,  and  he  proposed  to  have  a  sharp 
attack  of  influenza,  especially  as  he  is  going  out  of 
town  to-morrow  for  a  few  days.  It  was  a  little  annoy- 
ing, for  at  that  moment  Gerald  Plympton  came  in, 
whom  I  would  far  rather  have  secured  for  you  if  pos- 
sible." 

"  Oh,  Edgar,"  said  she,  "  I  am  glad  you  didn't.  He 
would  have  to  sit  next  to  me,  and  he  is  heavy — heavy. 
He  has  a  greater  sense  of  responsibility  than  anyone 
I  know." 

Edgar  considered  this. 

"  I  think  that  is  why  I  like  him,"  he  said.  "  He 
spends  the  whole  day  in  his  office,  and  personally  reads 
every  paragraph  that  is  to  come  out  in  the  Daily  Re- 


view.'' 


11  I  should  expect  that,"  said  Lucia  incisively.  "  I 
know  now  why  it  is  so  unreadable.  It  reeks  of  respon- 
sibility. ' ' 


THE    CLIMBER  217 

' '  You  are  rather  down  on  the  sense  of  responsibility 
to-day,"  he  remarked. 

' '  Yes ;  I  think  it  is  the  fault  of  Chaucer.  I  like  the 
'  smalle  fowles  maken  melodic  '  better.  They  are  so 
improvident  and  irresponsible.  Sometimes,  do  you 
know,  sometimes  I  wish  you  had  been  a  labourer,  with 
eighteen  shillings  a  week.  Then  on  Friday  evening  we 
would  have  gone  to  the  Queen's  Hall  with  the  last  two 
shillings,  and  have  had  nothing  to  eat  till  you  got  your 
wages  on  Saturday.  Oh,  Edgar,  it  is  delightful  to  be 
rich,  but  I  wonder  sometimes  whether  it  would  not  be 
more  exquisite  to  be  poor.  To  do  things  we  can't  really 
afford!  I  think  one  would  value  them  more.  If  you 
just  manage  to  get  something,  you  like  it  better  than  if 
you  get  it  quite  easily." 

Lucia  had  gone  too  far ;  she  had  roused  what  she  did 
not  intend  to  rouse. 

' '  How  often  have  I  wished  that !  "  he  said.  ' '  I  wish 
I  had  been  a  breaker  of  stones  on  the  road  opposite 
Fair  View.  You  and  I  would  have  been  together  now, 
just  the  same.  And  we  could  have  denied  ourselves  for 
the  sake  of  what  we  loved.  You  would  have  whistled 
the  '  Unfinished  '  to  me  again.  You  whistled  it  from  an 
upper  window  when  I  called  on  you  the  day  of  our 
cricket  match.  So  it  has  become  not  Schubert  only,  but 
you  and  Schubert. ' ' 

Lucia  laughed. 

1  i  After  all,  Schubert  began, ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  might 
call  it  Schubert  and  me,  not  me  and  Schubert." 

' '  But  he  left  it  unfinished  until  you  came, ' '  said 
Edgar. 

He  felt  what  he  said;  it  was  a  lover's  speech,  but  he 
could  not  help  being  neat  over  it. 


218  THE   CLIMBER 

Lover  and  killer  of  romance !  Lucia  hardly  knew  in 
which  character  she  found  him  most  difficult  to  respond 
to.  Sometimes  he  killed  external  romance,  when  she 
believed  it  was  just  on  the  point  of  becoming  luminous 
to  her ;  sometimes,  as  now,  he  suddenly  hoisted  the  flag 
of  internal  romance,  and  she  had  to  be  the  wind  to  make 
it  wave.  And  there  was  not  a  breath  of  air  in  all  her 
welkin.  She  had,  so  she  pictured  it  to  herself,  to  go 
swarming  up  the  flagstaff,  and  with  her  hand  pull  out 
the  flag,  and  hold  it  extended,  so  that  he  might  think  it 
was  waving.  Never  yet  had  she  failed  to  do  that ;  her 
arm  might  ache,  she  might  be  busy  with  other  things, 
but  she  never  failed  to  agitate  the  flag.  That  was 
clearly  her  business;  it  was  her  part  of  the  bargain. 
But  she  wondered  sometimes,  and  wondered  now, 
how  long  she  would  have  to  go  on  doing  this, 
for  how  many  years  more  he  would  continue  hoist- 
ing the  flag  for  her  to  wave.  In  course  of  time  she 
supposed  he  would  cease  to  be  her  "  swain,"  as  his 
favourite  Elizabethans  phrased  it,  and  she  looked  for- 
ward to  the  more  prosaic  years  with  more  than  equa- 
nimity. Just  now,  too,  the  whole  impression  made  on 
her  by  Maud  caused  her  to  be  both  envious  and  impa- 
tient of  romance.  Maud  was  haloed  with  it;  it  shone 
from  her.  And  Lucia,  though  she  had  never  authenti- 
cally felt  it,  recognized  its  authenticity  in  others.  It 
was  so  common,  too ;  it  was  a  thousand  pities  she  had 
missed  it.  The  people  who  changed  hats  knew  what  it 
was,  the  couples  who  moored  punts  underneath  the 
trees  of  Cliveden  knew  it ;  it  was  only  she  who  had  to 
contrive  to  appear  to  know  it.  Others  had  not  to  think; 
they  just  did  as  they  felt  inclined,  changed  hats  or  what 
not,  and  that  was  somehow  the  genuine  thing.  Even 


THE    CLIMBER  219 

Edgar's  invariable  neatness  did  not  blind  her  to  the 
fact  that  he,  too,  was  genuine.  Though  it  was  no  bea- 
con flaring  from  the  windy  mountain-top,  like  that 
which  led  Siegfried  to  Briinnhilde,  that  burned  in  him, 
it  was  the  authentic  fire,  though  burning,  so  to  speak, 
in  a  neat  grate  with  polished  fire-irons,  and  a  small 
broom  to  sweep  the  hearth  with. 

Lucia,  a  little  impatient,  a  little  envious,  failed  to 
wave  the  flag  for  the  first  time. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  your  compliments  are 
charming,  but  are  they  quite,  quite  sincere!  If  you 
said  I  wrote  for  you  a  third  verse  of  *  Her  golden  hair 
was  hanging  down  her  back,'  I  could  understand,  but 
when  you  tell  me  that  I  have  finished  the  '  Unfinished  ' 
for  you,  you  strain  me  a  little. ' ' 

She  saw  his  face  fall,  she  saw  a  pained  surprise  come 
into  his  eyes,  and  instantly  repented  of  her  impatience. 
It  was  always  a  pity  to  disappoint  people,  unless  to  ful- 
fil their  expectations  implied  an  exertion  dispropor- 
tionate to  the  pleasure  you  gave,  and  she  instantly  at- 
tempted to  remedy  her  mistake.  She  sat  down  by  him 
and  took  up  his  hand. 

11  It  is  so  strange,  so  incredible  to  me,  to  think, 
that  I,  this  foolish  flippant  I,  can  be  that  to  you,"  she 
said.  "  Sometimes  I  can't  believe  it,  because  it 
makes  me  out  to  be  such  a  wonderful  person.  I 
am  sure  I  disappoint  you  sometimes,  and  to  finish  the 
1  Unfinished  '  for  you  would  imply  that  I  was  never 
disappointing. ' ' 

* '  You  could  only  disappoint  me  by  doubting  my  love 
for  you, ' '  he  said. 

That  would  have  been  enough ;  unfortunately  he  com- 
pleted the  sentiment. 


220  THE    CLIMBER 

"  Or  by  making  it  possible  for  me  to  doubt  yours," 
he  added. 

That  was  tiresome ;  Lucia  had  to  think  very  rapidly 
and  very  intently  before  she  replied.  Then  she  with- 
drew her  hand. 

"  Edgar!  "  she  said,  with  an  excellent  suspicion  of 
tremolo. 

He  softened  a  little,  but  he  still  felt  that  his  reply  had 
been  just. 

' l  But,  my  darling,  what  was  it  you  said  to  me  ?  That 
you  could  not  imagine  being  more  to  me  than  the  third 
verse  of  some  dreadful  vulgar  song.  What  am  I  to 
gather  from  that!  Surely  that  you  believe  that  my 
love  for  you  is  not  the  wonderful  thing  it  is.  You  make 
out  that  the  very  foundations  of  our  life  are  unsound." 

Anxious  as  she  was  to  close  this  rift  without  delay, 
she  could  not  help  mentally  criticizing  what  he  said.  It 
was  like  him — oh,  so  like  him ! — to  say  '  *  a  dreadful  vul- 
gar song."  He  had  to  put  that  in.  Then  she  attacked 
the  main  question  with  extreme  adroitness. 

"  I  imply  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  said,  speaking 
quickly.  "  I  have  told  you  already  what  I  meant.  I 
never  doubted  your  love  for  me.  It  is  left  for  you  to  do 
that,  if  you  choose.  I  only  wondered — as  I  told  you — 
how  it  can  be  possible  that  I  should  inspire  it." 

She  could  not  have  done  better  than  to  seem  deeply 
hurt.  That  appealed  not  only  to  his  love,  but  to  his 
manhood.  So  she  forgave  him,  and  promised  that  the 
thing  should  pass  out  of  her  memory,  and  be  as  if  it 
had  never  been.  It  had  not  been  he  who  had  spoken. 

But  for  him  now,  as  well  as  for  her,  a  cloud  had  risen 
on  the  horizon.  Just  for  the  moment,  in  this  renewed 
sunshine  it  was  invisible,  but  it  was  there,  and  some 


THE    CLIMBER  221 

day  it  would  quite  certainly  appear  again.  Just  now  he 
could  with  all  sincerity  accept  his  wife's  explanation 
of  what  had  so  wounded  him,  for,  indeed,  it  was  ad- 
mirably reasonable.  But  that  which  she  had  explained 
so  well  had  gone  deeper  than  her  explanation  of  it. 
She  had  but  smeared  paint  over  the  rift.  But  he  did 
not  know  that  now. 

Lucia  never  did  things  by  halves,  and  since  she  had 
promised  to  expunge  the  incident  altogether,  it  was 
part  of  the  fulfilment  of  her  bargain  that  she  should  be 
in  the  highest  and  most  exuberant  spirits  at  their  little 
dinner  that  night,  and  she  came  downstairs  prepared 
both  to  enjoy  herself  and  to  show  Edgar  that  her  for- 
giveness included  that  higher  power  of  forgiveness 
which  is  to  forget. 

"  Oh,  it  is  easy  to  forgive,"  she  had  said  to  him  once; 
"  it  only  requires  a  sort  of  cow-like  meekness  to  do 
that;  but  the  forgiveness  that  counts  forgets  as  well, 
and  to  forget  an  injury  does  not  mean  that  you  have  a 
bad  memory,  but  that  by  an  effort  you  turn  the  thought 
of  it  out  of  your  mind.  It  will  come  back,  and  you  will 
have  to  do  it  again,  until  it  sees  that  your  mind  is  no 
place  for  it.  So  remember,  whenever  I  injure  you,  I 
expect  to  be  forgiven  like  that." 

It  was  this  that  she  was  quite  prepared  to  do  now, 
for  even  an  hour  only  after  the  occurrence  she  believed, 
though  without  conscious  self -persuasion,  that  she  had 
something  to  forgive.  She  forgot  also,  with  swift  and 
astonishing  completeness,  the  amazing  cheapness  of 
her  own  share  in  it  all,  her  feigned  reproaches  to  him, 
her  half-choking  justification  of  herself.  All  that  she 
remembered  (and  regretted)  was  the  moment  when  she 


222 

had  been  betrayed  into  candour  and  frankness.  She 
must  guard  against  that  happening  again.  For  that, 
in  order  to  insure  the  success  and  happiness  of  her 
marriage,  for  his  sake  no  less  than  for  her  own,  was  the 
wisest  and  most  sensible  way  to  behave.  He  had  mar- 
ried her,  it  is  true,  under  the  slight  misapprehension 
that  she  loved  him,  and  for  two  years  she  had,  with  the 
exercise  of  a  little  tact  and  thoughtfulness,  kept  that  il- 
lusion undeniably  alive.  It  would  be,  so  to  speak, 
grown-up  murder  to  kill  it  now ;  if  she  had  meant  to  kill 
-it,  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  committed  infan- 
ticide, and  have  done  so  immediately  after  her  mar- 
riage. To  be  frank  with  him  now  could  only  lead  to 
unhappiness  and  misery  for  him  and  great  awkward- 
ness and  discomfort,  even  shame,  for  herself.  Frank- 
ness was  the  refuge  of  the  tactless,  thought  Lucia,  as 
her  maid  clasped  her  pearl  collar  round  her  tall  white 
neck ;  they  blurted  out  unpleasant  truths  because  they 
had  not  the  finesse  requisite  to  play  a  delicate  part. 
Honesty  was  the  best  policy  only  of  those  who  were  not 
politicians.  •' 

Charlie  Lindsay,  a  thing  not  rare  with  him,  was 
the  last  to  arrive.  To-night  he  was  a  notable  last, 
and  made  a  somewhat  talkative  entrance,  with  the 
butler  close  on  his  back  to  say  that  dinner  was 
ready. 

11  I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said  to  Lucia,  "  but  I  thought 
Edgar  said  half-past  eight." 

Here  his  eye  fell  on  the  clock. 

"  That  won't  do,"  he  said.  "  It  would  make  me  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  early,  instead  of  being  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  late.  Tiresome  as  it  is  to  be  late,  it  is  better 
than  being  early." 


THE   CLIMBER  223 

He  broke  out  into  a  perfectly  natural,  boyish  laugh, 
as  he  sh9ok  hands. 

'  *  I  will  try  to  think  of  another  excuse,  if  you  wish, '  * 
he  said. 

Lucia  laughed  too;  there  was  something  extraordi- 
narily attractive  in  his  complete  lack  of  shame. 

"  Yes,  please,  I  want  another  excuse,"  she  said. 
"  Try  to  do  better,  won't  you?  Will  you  take  in  Mrs. 
Alderson  and  deposit  yourself  between  her  and  me? 
You  know  her?  " 

"  Yes,  rather.    I  am  in  luck." 

Lucia  devoted  herself  at  first  to  her  right-hand  neigh- 
bour, and  talked  Strauss  with  him.  Fay  Alderson  and 
Lindsay  on  her  other  side  appeared  both  to  be  talking 
at  once,  with  shouts  of  laughter,  and  it  was  only  a  sense 
of  duty  that  kept  her  from  joining  them. 

* '  Nine  bars  of  orchestra, ' '  said  Lord  Heron  impress- 
ively, "  and  into  those  nine  bars  he  has  put  all  the 
ardour  of  the  East.  It  has  been  a  hot  day,  and  the  air 
is  full  of  the  fatigue  of  its  hours.  Then  the  curtain 
goes  up  on  the  courtyard  of  Herod's  palace.  There  is 
the  green  tank  behind,  the  young  Syrian  and  the  page 
of  Herodias  are  talking  together.  The  short  tragic 
phrases  fall  drop  by  bitter  drop  like  blood,  hot  and 
corrosive. ' ' 

11  How  wonderful!  "  said  Lucia  absently,  for  from 
the  other  side  came  the  most  enchanting  fragments. 

"  So  she  put  the  peacock  in  the  cupboard,  don't  you 
remember?  "  said  Fay  Alderson,  and  Charlie's  laugh 
showed  that  he  did. 

Elsewhere,  too,  round  the  table  everyone  seemed  to 
be  full  of  laughter,  all  except  Edgar,  who  was  saying 
something  about  the  photographic  instantaneousness  of 


224  THE    CLIMBER 

Japanese  art  to  Lady  Heron,  who  did  not  know  a  pic- 
ture from  a  statue.  But  for  some  reason,  which  Lucia 
did  not  yet  grasp,  being  still  new  to  London,  Lady 
Heron  "  mattered."  She  was  a  tall,  handsome,  grey- 
headed woman,  who  had  both  a  past  and  a  present. 
She  had  not  in  the  least  lived  her  past  down;  she  took 
it  about  with  her  still,  like  a  dachshund.  Lucia  meant 
to  study  her  very  carefully ;  nothing  in  the  art  of  living 
should  be  overlooked.  Then  she  recollected  she  had 
spoken  absently,  and  turned  eagerly  to  her  neighbour 
again. 

"  I  adore  Strauss, "  she  said,  "  if  it  were  only  for 
the  fact  that  he  makes  Wagner  sound  so  melodious. 
Then  somebody  will  come  who  will  make  Strauss  sound 
the  sort  of  music  that  you  can  carry  away  with  you.  I 
never  heard  of  anyone  yet  in  whose  head  Strauss  *  ran.' 
Fancy  having  Strauss  running  in  your  head.  I  must 
get  Edgar  to  take  me  to  hear  '  Salome.'  : 

Lord  Heron  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  go  alone,"  he  said.  "It  is  almost  always  a 
mistake  to  hear  music  with  other  people,  just  as  it  is  a 
mistake  to  see  pictures  that  are  new  to  you  with  other 
people.  You  want  to  find  out  first  of  all  what  you  think 
of  them,  not  how  they  strike  other  people.  You  couldn't 
read  a  book  with  somebody  else  reading  over  your 
shoulder.*' 

1 '  Ah,  no ;  but  because  you  want  to  turn  over  before 
he  had  finished,  or  be  afraid  that  he  would  want  to  turn 
over  before  you." 

"It  is  just  the  same  with  music  or  art,"  said  he; 
' '  somebody  points  a  thing  out  to  you  before  you  have 
really  come  to  it,  or  else  hasn't  got  to  the  point  you 
have  got  to.  It  is  just  like  the  turning  over  of  pages. ' ' 


THE    CLIMBER  225 

Certain  moments  in  her  months  of  travel  with  Edgar 
occurred  to  her.  It  had  been  just  as  Lord  Heron  had 
said :  he  was  often  at  points  which  she  had  already  trav- 
ersed, or  to  which  she  had  not  yet  come.  She  could  not 
help  alluding,  though  distantly,  to  this. 

"  Ah,  that  is  interesting  and  true,"  she  said.  "  If 
two  people  are  both  genuinely  interested  in  something, 
they  can  easily  get  on  each  other's  nerves,  in  spite  of 
their  interest  in  the  subject,  and  their — their  affection 
for  each  other.  You  would  say  that  was  because  their 
minds  did  not  keep  the  same  time. ' ' 

"  No  minds  do,"  he  said,  "  in  matters  of  art.  For 
two  people  to  attempt  to  see  any  new  and  complex  work 
of  art  together,  and  expect  to  keep  in  harmony  them- 
selves, is  a  thing  as  impossible  as  it  would  be  for  two 
people  to  play  a  duet  together  if  the  music  was  written 
in  one  time  for  the  bass  and  in  another  for  the  treble. 
As  you  say,  they  will  also  get  on  each  other's  nerves, 
and  each  will  say  that  the  other  is  not  keeping  time. ' ' 

Again  Lucia 's  private  thoughts  were  reflected  in  her 
speech. 

11  But  cannot  one  of  them  play  so  loud  that  he  does 
not  hear  what  the  treble  is  doing?  "  she  asked.  "  He 
will  be  unconscious  of  her  music,  and  just  thump  his 
own,  and  say  '  How  glorious !  '  when  he  has  got  to  the 
end  of  the  piece." 

Lord  Heron  liked  this ;  he  was  heavy  of  body,  and  in- 
clined, when  left  alone,  to  be  pompous  in  mind.  But  he 
appreciated  agility  in  others. 

"  Yes,  that  may  happen,"  he  said,  "  but  the  treble 
will  probably  refuse  to  be  thumped  out  of  existence  for 
ever.  She  will  play  a  few  pieces  with  him,  and  then — 
go  and  play  pieces  with  somebody  else." 


226  THE   CLIMBER 

Lucia  still  pursued  her  private  theme. 

"  But  the  bass  may  go  further,"  she  said.  "  He  may 
kiss  her  hand  at  the  end  and  say,  *  How  wonderfully 
you  played  that !  How  you  inspire  me !  '  All  the  time 
it  has  only  been  his  own  music  that  he  really  heard. ' ' 

He  laughed. 

"  Then  she  ought  never  to  have  consented  to  play 
duets  with  him  at  all,"  he  said. 

At  that  moment  the  compass-needle  of  conversation 
swerved.  Beginning  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  Ed- 
gar suddenly  spoke  to  his  left-hand  neighbour  about 
Japanese  art,  and  the  direction  of  talk  altered.  Fay 
Alderson  turned  to  the  left,  and  Lucia  turned  to  the  left 
also. 

"  I  love  seeing  an  excuse  discomfited,"  she  said  to 
Charlie  Lindsay.  "  You  surely  ought  to  have  looked 
at  the  clock  before  you  said  you  thought  dinner  was  at 
half -past  eight." 

"  I  looked  at  you  first,"  he  said. 

Conversation  had  blossomed  again. 

' '  Maud 's  friend, ' '  he  added  quietly. 

"  Yes,  she  was  here  to-day.  She  told  me,  you  know. 
I  congratulate  you  most  sincerely.  Yes,  I  am  her 
friend.  She  is  adorable,  is  she  not  f  Nobody  knows  it 
so  well — anyhow  better — than  I.  Oh,  this  isn't  dinner- 
talk.  Do  let  us  talk  about  Maud  afterwards.  At  pres- 
ent, who  put  the  peacock  in  the  cupboard?  No,  on  the 
whole,  don't  tell  me;  priceless  fragments  can  be  marred 
by  their  context." 

"  I  want  to  talk  about  Maud,"  said  Charlie. 

"  Then  you  mustn't.  I  hear  you  threw  over  another 
engagement  to  come  here.  I  thought  that  was  charm- 
ing of  you." 


THE   CLIMBER  227 

"  Edgar  is  a  dreadful  gossip,"  said  Charlie.  "  I 
recommend  you  never  to  tell  him  anything  private.  Do 
you  know,  I  was  staying  with  him  when  he  went  to  Brix- 
ham  to  pay  calls,  and  found  you  alone," 

"  And  he  told  you?  " 

"  How  could  I  know  otherwise?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  do  be  indiscreet,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  she  said,  "  and 
tell  me  what  he  said  when  he  came  back.  It's  about  me, 
you  know ;  all  women  want  to  know  what  others  say  of 
them." 

Lucia  looked  at  him  a  moment,  mischief  dancing  in 
her  eyes,  which  found  something  that  answered  it. 
How  boyish  he  looked ;  how  young  she  felt !  That  was- 
the  Skimpole  effect. 

11  Did  he  do  me  justice?  "  she  asked.  "  Do  give  me 
handles  against  him;  I  never  can  get  any  of  my  own 
finding.  He  is  always  up  to  the  mark.  But  do  tell  me 
he  said  something  unappreciative. " 

No  young  man  dislikes  being  treated  intimately  by  a 
woman,  even  if  he  is  just  engaged  to  another.  Charlie 
did  not  dislike  it  in  the  least. 

"  No,  he  was  tremendously  appreciative,"  he  said. 
* '  I  got  rather  bored  with  you,  in  fact.  But  I  thought 
you  probably  wore  spectacles." 

Lucia  did  not  say  "  Why?  "  She  thought  it  over  for 
a  moment,  then  exploded  with  laughter. 

"  Oh,  I  see  perfectly,"  she  said.  "  I  quite  under- 
stand your  thinking  that.  I  must  really  wear  them 
whenever  I  meet  you;  it  was  so  right  of  you  to  think 
that.  There  was  Schubert's  '  Unfinished  '  on  the  piano, 
he  told  you  that?  " 

"  He  did." 

"  And  Omar  Khayyam  on  the  sofa?  " 


228  THE    CLIMBER 

"  So  he  told  me." 

"  And — and  what  vulgar  people  would  call  antima- 
cassars on  the  sofa?  ' 

Charlie  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  he  never  told  me  that,"  he  said. 

"  That  was  dear  of  him.  Because  they  were  there. 
Do  go  on.  I  quite  see  about  the  spectacles.  What  else 
did  you  think?  Oh,  be  honest;  there  is  nothing  so  little 
likely  to  be  found  out.  Tell  me  with  detail  what  you 
thought  I  should  be  like. ' ' 

Charlie  guffawed. 

"  Remember  I  am  not  insulting  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
only  damning  myself.  I  thought  you  would  have  spec- 
tacles as  I  said.  I  thought  you  would  have  large  kind 
hands.  I  thought  you  would  have  an  intellectual  ex- 
pression." 

11  I  have,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  no  doubt,  but  that  isn't  the  first  impression 
when  one  sees  you.  Is  it  ?  ' 

* '  I  hope  not, ' '  said  Lucia.  "  I  'm  sure  an  intellectual 
expression  is  delightful,  yet  I  hope  not. ' ' 

11  Why?  " 

Lucia  refused  ice,  and  put  both  her  elbows  on  the 
table. 

"  Because  Maud  hasn't  got  an  intellectual  expres- 
sion," she  said. 

"  No,  thank  God!  "  he  said. 

"  Ah!  why  that?  "  she  asked. 

"  Clearly  because  as  she  is  quite  perfect  as  she  is, 
and  has  not  got  an  intellectual  expression,  I  thank 
God  she  hasn't,  since  any  alteration  must  be  for  the 
worse!  '! 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  not  very  nice  for  her,"  said  Lucia. 


THE    CLIMBER  229 

"  It  means  that  any  change  in  her  implies  deteriora- 
tion." 

Charlie  laughed. 

"  That's  what  comes  of  being  perfect,"  he 
said. 

There  was  something  final  about  this:  he  seemed 
rather  to  sum  up  what  they  had  said  instead  of  leaving 
an  opening  for  further  developments  in  the  conversa- 
tion. She  took  his  hint  as  instinctively  as  he  had 
given  it. 

"  You  must  bring  her  down  to  Brayton  in  the  au- 
tumn," she  said.  "  We  are  going  to  be  there  from 
October  straight  on  for  ever  and  ever.  Do  you  know,  I 
can't  imagine  you  and  Edgar  alone.  What  do  you  talk 
about?  " 

"  His  character,  chiefly,"  said  Charlie. 

* '  Ah !  he  would  like  that, ' '  said  Lucia.  ' '  I  mean  he 
loves  discussions." 

Charlie  filled  his  mouth  very  full,  so  as  to  avoid  an 
immediate  reply.  He  was  shaking  with  internal  laugh- 
ter, for  the  first  part  of  Lucia 's  speech  had  been  so  ob- 
viously genuine  and  unpremeditated;  the  second  sen- 
tence so  gloriously  lame.  Then,  unfortunately,  their 
eyes  met;  by  a  superhuman  effort  Charlie  swallowed 
half  a  peach,  and  they  both  laughed. 

"  But  he  does  love  discussion,"  said  Lucia. 

"  I  know.    So  do  I.    Don't  you?  " 

This  was  rather  adroit. 

"  Yes,  I  like  it,  with  limitations.  But  I  don't  think 
it's  really  the  most  enjoyable  form  of  conver- 
sation." 

"  What  is,  then?  " 

"  Ridiculous  conversation — conversation  which  you 


230  THECLIMBEE 

can't  remember  afterwards,  and  only  know  that  no- 
body listened  and  everybody  laughed." 

*  *  Ah !  let  us  have  lots  of  that  at  Brayton, ' '  he  said. 

Lucia  suddenly  gave  a  little  exclamation  of  annoy- 
ance. Cigarettes  had  been  handed  round  almost  during 
desert,  and  she,  without  thinking,  had  taken  one.  Ed- 
gar knew  she  smoked  in  private,  but  he  held  very  strong 
and  marvellously  old-fashioned  views,  so  it  seemed  to 
Lucia,  about  women  smoking  in  public.  This  was  one 
of  the  things  in  which  she  gave  way  to  him  without  a 
murmur;  it  mattered  very  little  to  her,  and  for  some 
reason  which  she  could  not  understand  he  disliked  it. 
But  for  the  moment  she  had  entirely  forgotten,  till, 
looking  up,  she  saw  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  in  distinct  dis- 
approval. The  disapproval  she  tacitly  resented,  but  she 
was  annoyed  with  herself  at  her  own  forgetfulness,  and 
instantly  quenched  the  burning  end  of  her  cigarette  in 
her  finger  bowl,  and  gave  him  a  little  glance  of  depre- 
cating apology  across  the  table.  But  Charlie  had  heard 
her  exclamation,  and  followed  the  little  drama  with 
comprehension. 

11  I'm  sure  he  has  discussed  that  with  you,"  he  said. 

Lucia  collected  eyes,  and  rose. 

"  I  love  prejudices,"  she  said;  "  it  is  they  that  make 
people  individual.  People's  dislikes  are  always  more 
characteristic  of  them  than  their  likes." 

* «  Their  likes  ?    The  likes  of  them  ?  "  he  asked. 

Lucia  laughed  at  the  futility  of  this. 

"  Ah !  keep  that  for  Brayton,"  she  said. 

Their  guests  showed  no  tendency  to  wish  to  go  on 
anywhere,  and  the  prohibition  to  leave  before  half-past 


THE    CLIMBER  231 

eleven  was  universally  construed  as  a  permission  to 
stop  till  twelve.  There  was  a  little  music,  and  a  couple 
of  bridge-tables  had  been  put  out,  but  Edgar  noted 
with  satisfaction  that,  though  Lucia  had  twice  called 
attention  to  these,  nobody  had  played. 

"It  is  too  pathetic  that  most  people  cannot  get 
through  an  evening  without  sitting  down  to  win  each 
•other's  money,"  he  had  said  to  Lucia  once.  "  Do  let 
our  house  be  known  as  one  where  anybody  is,  of  course, 
perfectly  at  liberty  to  play  cards,  but  where  nobody 
does."  * 

This  was  immediately  after  their  return  to  town  this 
year  as  they  were  driving  home  from  a  house  where 
Edgar  had  been  compelled  to  make  up  a  table,  and  had 
lost  twenty  pounds  with  remarkable  rapidity.  Lucia 
felt  dreadfully  inclined  to  ask  him  whether  the  idea 
was  that  the  richness  of  tone  in  their  house  was  sup- 
posed to  be  the  deterrent,  but  wisely  refrained. 

"  Oh,  I  quite  agree,"  she  said.  "  It  shows  an  uneasy 
consciousness  of  one's  lack  of  ideas  to  sit  down  to 
bridge  immediately  after  dinner.  People  like  playing 
largely  because  it  prohibits  conversation,  and  prevents 
their  barren  minds  being  exposed." 

"  Then  let  us  never  have  a  card-table  put  out  when 
we  entertain, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Coming  fresh  to  London,  we 
have  to  experiment  rather,  to  make  trial  hosts  of  peo- 
ple, but  that  will  sift  them." 

There  was  something  priceless  about  this,  but  she  re- 
plied quite  gravely. 

"Ah!  let  us  go  one  better,"  she  said;  "  let  us 
have  bridge-tables  under  our  guests'  very  noses, 
and  see  how  much  more  attractive  they  find  conver- 
sation. ' ' 


232  THE    CLIMBER 

She  had  forgotten  about  this  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but 
Edgar  had  not,  and  when  he  came  upstairs  again  after 
seeing  the  last  guest  off  to-night,  he  pointed  to  the 
tables. 

"  You  were  right,  darling,"  he  said.  "  Nobody 
wanted  to  play.  Nobody  does,  except  when  he  is  bored. 

I  noticed  also  that,  though  carriages  were  announced  at 
half-past  eleven,  there  wasn't  a  move  made  till  after 
twelve. ' ' 

Lucia  was  a  little  sleepy. 

"  I  think  it  went  off  all  right,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
think  people  found  it  tiresome.  Oh,  Edgar,  I  am  sorry 
about  that  cigarette.  I  was  interested ;  I  quite  forgot. ' ' 

He  made  a  great  concession. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  relax  my  prohibition,"  he  said. 
"  I  noticed  Lady  Heron  smoked,  and  I  talked  to  her 
about  it.  I  said  I  did  not  wish  you  to  smoke  in  public. ' ' 

Lucia  resented  this ;  she  was  quite  willing  to  indulge 
any  foolish  prejudices  of  her  husband,  provided  they 
did  not  seriously  inconvenience  her,  but  she  rebelled 
against  the  tone  that  alluded  to  them  as  a  prohibition 
to  her. 

"  I  don't  think  you  should  have  done  that,"  she  said. 
"  It  makes  one  out  a  child,  as  if  I  should  not  do  as  I 
choose." 

That  would  not  do;  that  was  a  mistake.  She  in- 
stantly covered  it  up. 

"  Darling,  it  makes  you  such  a  Bluebeard,"  she  said; 

II  and  you  are  not.    But  as  the  prohibition  is  relaxed, 
we  needn't   say  any  more  about  it.     Oh,   Edgar,  I 
thought  Charlie  Lindsay  was  delightful !    What  nice 
relations  you  have  got.    He  is  so  quick,  too,  so  intelli- 
gent.   He  gives  a  staccato  note." 


233 

Edgar  stiffened  slightly.  Charlie  had  been  a  little 
flippant  in  the  hall  on  the  subject  of  the  widening  effect 
of  foreign  travel.  He  had  told  him  that  his  mind  must 
be  as  broad  as  it  was  long  after  all  that  voyaging.  Also 
he  had  an  allusion  to  make  to  Lucia's  last  speech. 

"  One  moment,"  he  said,  "  and  then  we  will  talk 
about  Charlie.  I  think  you  said  *  As  if  I  should  not  do 
as  I  choose.'  Do  you  imply  that  you  would  not  be 
guided  by  me  and  my  experience  in  such  matters !  ' ' 

Lucia  felt  a  sudden  exasperation  at  this.  But  she 
checked  it  admirably. 

' '  My  dear,  my  own  experience  of  women  smoking  is 
necessarily  greater  than  yours,  owing  to  my  sex.  The 
whole  matter  is  infinitesimal,  though;  it  is  not  worth 
discussing.  Besides,  I  neatly  and  immediately  covered 
that  up  by  saying  that  you  made  yourself  out  a  Blue- 
beard. I  crossed  the  other  out — erased  it. ' ' 

Edgar  paused  with  his  finger  up,  a  trick  he  had  in 
discussion,  showing  he  had  something  to  say. 

"  Ah,  I  put  my  finger  on  a  weak  spot  in  your  argu- 
ment. You  say  that,  owing  to  your  sex,  you  have  a 
greater  experience  of  women  smoking.  A  quibble,  my 
darling,  a  palpable  quibble.  We  are  talking  of  the  im- 
pression produced  on  the  world  by  women  smoking  in 
public,  not  on  the  inhalation  of  tobacco  smoke." 

"  My  dear,  you  shall  have  it  just  your  own  way," 
said  Lucia,  * '  especially  since  the  prohibition  is  relaxed. 
I  repeat  that  I  thought  Charlie  Lindsay  delightful.  We 
shall,  I  hope,  see  a  good  deal  of  him.  That  will  natu- 
rally be  so,  will  it  not,  as  he  marries  my  greatest 
friend!  " 

Edgar  contemplated  the  very  shiny  toes  of  his  even- 
ing shoes  for  a  moment  in  silence. 


234  THE   CLIMBER 

' '  Perfect  frankness  is  the  foundation  of  success  and 
happiness  and  harmony,  is  it  not?  "  he  observed.  "  So 
I  will  be  perfectly  frank." 

"  That  means  you  have  some  objection  to  make,  I 
suppose,"  said  Lucia. 

"  Why  do  you  anticipate  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  Simply  because  nobody  calls  attention  to  the  ad- 
visability of  frankness  when  his  views  coincide  with 
another  person's." 

"  Well,  to  a  certain  extent  you  are  right.  I  wonder, 
anyhow,  that  you  think  so  highly  of  Charlie.  My  ex- 
perience of  him,  you  will  allow,  is  greater  than  yours, 
and  while  confessing  that  at  first  I  found  charm  in  what 
you  call  his  quickness,  his  intelligence,  I  find  in  him 
now — especially  after  our  two  delightful  years  of 
travel — a  superficiality  and  a  flippancy  that  you  also, 
I  feel  sure,  will  soon  perceive.  Frankly,  then,  Lucia, 
I  do  not  think  of  him  as  one  of  our  habitues,  one  of  our 
more  intimate  circle.  I  hasten  to  add,  however,  that  I 
see  that  it  is  possible,  even  probable,  that  Miss  Eddis 
will  do  much  towards  making  him  more  cultivated, 
more  earnest.  Shall  we  for  the  present  dismiss  the 
subject?  We  are  not  likely  to  quarrel  over  it." 

"  Especially  if  we  dismiss  it,"  said  Lucia.  "  But 
with  your  own  admirable  frankness,  I  would  just  like 
to  add  that  though  your  experience  of  him  may  be — is 
— greater  than  mine,  it  does  not  follow  that  your  judg- 
ment is  more  correct.  Also  I  have  asked  him  and  Maud 
to  lunch  to-morrow.  I  hope  you  don 't  mind. ' ' 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Lucia,  how  can  you  think  me  so  in- 
finitesimal? "  he  said,  laughing.  "  And  now  let  us  talk 
for  a  moment  of  a  subject  far  closer  to  us,  and  dearer 
to  us  both.  My  darling,  you  are  splendid — you  are 


THE    CLIMBER  235 

superb!  The  chorus  of  admiration  of  you  from  our 
guests  when  I  saw  them  off !  And  the  loudest  voice  in 
the  chorus  was  Lady  Heron's.  She  was  immensely 
struck  by  you.  Some  little  phrase  of  yours — what  was 
it  ?  ah — yes,  about  people  being  only  the  society-wraiths 
of  their  real  selves  at  balls  and  big  parties,  took  her 
fancy  immensely.  She  said  that  we — she  was  kind 
enough  to  say  *  we, '  but  it  was  mere  politeness ;  she 
meant  you — that  we  must  inaugurate  an  intellectual 
regeneration  in  London." 

Lucia  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Did  she  really  say  that!  "  she  asked.  "  What  a 
darling!  " 

"  Indeed  she  did.  I  had  quite  .a  long  talk  with  her 
downstairs.  Another  phrase  of  hers — '  London  hates 
bluestockings,  but  adores  fine  minds.'  She  noticed,  too, 
that  nobody  played  bridge,  and  said  that  alone  was  an 
intellectual  triumph. ' ' 

Lucia  laughed. 

"  She  seems  to  have  been  laying  it  on  pretty  thick," 
she  remarked. 

"  Ah,  the  repeated  word  always  loses  its  lightness. 
You  would  not  have  said  so  if  you  had  heard  her." 

Lucia  laughed  again. 

"It  is  a  good  thing  I  did  not,"  she  said,  "  or  I 
should  have  been  puffed  up.  Now,  dearest,  I  must 
really  go  to  bed.  I  have  an  enormous  day  to-morrow, 
and  there  are  at  least  two  balls  I  must  go  to  in  the 
evening. ' ' 

She  paused  a  moment  in  front  of  him,  fingering  the 
stud  in  his  shirt.  Though  the  evening  had  been  so  suc- 
cessful, and  though  he  was  clearly  pleased  with  her, 
there  had  been  certain  moments  in  the  day  the  memory 


236  THECLIMBEK 

of  which  she  wanted  to  expunge  completely  from  his 
mind.  There  had  been  that  little  passage  before  din- 
ner; there  had  been  just  a  shade  of  friction  about  her 
smoking,  and  about  Charlie  in  this  last  talk. 

"  I  am  so  pleased,"  she  said;  "  and  I  have  had  a 
beautiful  birthday.  And  I  am  most  pleased  of  all  that 
I  have  pleased  you.  I  always  want  that  most,  dear. 
And  if  ever  you  think  me  tiresome,  or  wilful,  try  to  re- 
member that  that  is  the  surface  only,  and  deep,  deep 

down There,  you  will  get  conceited,  too.  Don't 

sit  up  too  late. ' ' 

"  I  am  coming  upstairs  immediately,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XI 

T  UCIA  rode  divinely,  and  certainly  Edgar  was  de* 
•"-^lighted  to  supply  her  with  divine  horses  to  ride. 
He  did  not  very  often  in  London  accompany  her  him- 
self, for  after  being  up  till  the  small  hours  began  to 
grow  large,  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  tackle  the  middle- 
sized  hours  again,  but  preferred  that  they  should  pass 
over  his  head  like  a  troop  of  ministering  angels  while 
he  slept.  But  Lucia,  to  whatever  hour  she  might  have 
been  dancing,  was  always  ready  to  be  up  again  by  eight, 
and  usually  began  the  day  by  a  gallop  in  the  Park. 
Sometimes  Maud  rode  with  her,  sometimes  Charlie,  oc- 
casionally both.  On  this  particular  morning,  half  way 
through  July,  it  was  Charlie  for  whom,  so  it  turned 
out,  she  waited  by  the  Alexandra  Gate. 

"  Oh,  you  are  late,  Charlie,"  she  called  to  him. 
"  Don't  try  to  excuse  yourself;  there  is  no  clock.  Did 
you  ever  see  a  more  heavenly  day?  How  hot  it  is  going 
to  be,  and  in  three  minutes  how  hot  you  are  going 
to  be!  " 

"  Morning,  Lucia,"  said  he.  "  How  long  did  you 
sleep  last  night?  " 

11  I  never  know  the  time.  And  what  is  the  use  of 
knowing  at  what  hour  by  the  clock  you  go  to  bed  or 
get  up?  People  invented  watches,  and  then  became 
slaves  to  them,  so  that  they  get  up  and  go  to  bed  or 
have  their  meals  when  watches  and  clocks  point  to  a 
certain  hour.  I  go  to  bed  when  I  am  tired  of  being  up. 
I  get  up — yes,  I  suppose  I  have  to  mention  the  hour. 

237 


238  THE   CLIMBER 

But  it  isn't  the  hour  that  matters ;  it  is  to  see  the  young 
day  that  matters.  Oh,  don't  talk  so  much.  Only  birds 
are  fit  to  talk  early  in  the  morning,  because  they  just 
sing  in  gratitude  for  the  nice  big  worm  they  have  swal- 
lowed. Charlie,  let's  go  and  drink  the  dew  and  eat  a 
few  worms,  and  then  sing  till  evening.  Then  more 
worms,  and  you  tuck  your  head  under  your  wing — 
have  you  got  a  wing?  mine  are  sprouting — and  go  to 
sleep  again.  Yes,  don't  talk  so  much.  We  will  gallop 
up  to  the  end,  and  then  seriously  gallop  down  the  mile, 
and  after  that  I  shall  be  able  to  speak.  And  why  isn't 
Maud  here?  She  is  as  bad  as  Edgar;  they  both  want 
to  sleep  and  sleep.  Aren't  they  darlings?  They  really 
were  made  for  each  other.  Now,  ride !  ' ' 

The  day  was  of  midsummer;  it  was  no  apology  for 
blue  that  domed  the  sky;  the  colour  would  have  been 
considered  blue  anywhere.  Eain  had  fallen  during  the 
night,  and  now,  as  Lucia  looked  on  the  lime-leaves, 
clean  and  varnished  with  the  fall,  and  on  the  pearl- 
laden  grass,  she  remembered  having  woke  once  during 
the  night  while  it  was  still  dark,  and  having  heard  the 
beautiful  whisper  of  its  outpouring.  Across  the  path 
from  the  Serpentine  came  belated  bathers,  towel  on 
neck,  who,  like-minded  with  her,  made  the  most  of  the 
morning  hour  when  all  London  forgets  itself,  and  is 
country  again.  As  they  raced,  tan-scattering,  past  the 
Knightsbridge  Barracks,  some  bugle  sounded,  and 
there  was  a  stir  of  erect  figures.  A  little  mist,  born 
of  the  night-rain,  hung  in  the  air,  and  the  steeple  of  the 
Albert  monument  just  pricked  it,  showing  gold  against 
the  blue.  Houses  were  a  little  veiled  in  these  ascend- 
ing vapours,  and  the  roadway  outside  the  Park  was 
damp  with  them,  so  that  Prince's  Grate  looked  like  a 


THE   CLIMBER  239 

line  of  Venetian  palaces,  with  the  dark  water  of  a  canal 
(the  wet  wood  of  the  street)  reflecting  them  below. 

Lucia  turned  to  her  companion,  snuffing  in  a 'great 
restful  breath  of  the  cool  morning. 

"  Don't  speak,"  she  said,  "  nor  will  I.  But,  oh,  it's 
so  nice!  >; 

They  cantered  round  the  short  bend  at  the  top  of 
the  mile  and  then  turned  on  to  the  straight. 

"  Now,"  she  said. 

They  started  level,  and  she  had  to  check  her  mare 
to  let  the  shorter  stride  of  Charlie's  cob  keep  pace. 
There  was  no  wind ;  the  elms  by  the  side  of  the  Serpen- 
tine were  towers  of  motionless  leaf,  but  the  movement 
of  their  going  made  a  soft,  steady  breeze  to  hum 
against  them.  Of  other  sound  there  was  none,  except 
the  soft  rhythmical  chant  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  scatter- 
ing the  loose  brown  stuff  behind  them.  Occasionally  one 
or  the  other  of  their  mounts  tossed  a  bridle,  with  a 
little  jingle  of  a  bit,  or  the  mare  blew  out  an  audible 
breath  from  her  wide  nostrils.  Then,  too  soon,  the  mile 
was  over,  and  Lucia  drew  rein,  with  a  great  deal  to 
say. 

' '  The  complicated  life !  ' '  she  said.  '  *  That  is  what 
I  love.  Oh,  how  I  despise  simplicity  of  existence ;  to  be 
content  with  it  shows  a  very  low  vitality,  or  very  high 
stupidity,  probably  both.  I  like  to  ride  like  this,  then 
to  rush  home  and  have  no  time  for  breakfast,  because 
I  am  going  to  see  the  Rodin  Exhibition  at  ten.  Three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  there,  and  then  a  dressmaker ;  then 
lunch  with  Madge  Heron,  then  a  concert;  then  I  must 
be  at  home  for  an  hour,  because  I  have  told  fifty  people 
I  shall  be  in ;  then  I  shall  read  till  dinner,  dine,  dance, 
and  get  to  bed  about  this  time  to-morrow.  Let's  turn 


240  THE    CLIMBER 

and  walk  up  under  the  trees.  Don't  you  agree, 
Charlie?  " 

' '  Oh,  I  like  it, ' '  he  said — * '  heaven  knows  I  like  it ! 
But  I  haven't  got  a  passion  for  it,  as  I  think  you  have." 

Lucia  looked  at  him  sideways  a  moment. 

"  I  believe  you  have,  too,"  she  said,  "  only  just  now 
you  have  put  a  lid  on  it.  Oh,  a  lid  of  gold,  I  grant 
you;  no  one  knows  that  better  than  I.  But  a  lid." 

Charlie  did  not  affect  to  misunderstand  this. 

11  I'll  tell  Maud  you  called  her  a  lid,"  he  remarked. 

"  Do.  Charlie,  you  are  the  luckiest  man  on  the 
earth." 

"  That  I  know.  About  the  lid.  I  don't  agree  with 
you.  Maud  has  got  just  as  much  intellectual  and  artis- 
tic and  human  activity  as  you  have ;  it  is  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  tempo.  But  when  God  wrote  your  music,  Lucia, 
he  marked  it  prestissimo." 

Lucia  flicked  off  with  the  tassel  of  her  whip  a  fly  that 
her  mare  was  twitching  its  skin  to  get  rid  of. 

"  Probably,"  she  said.  "  I  maintain,  however,  that 
He  marked  you  prestissimo  also,  and  that  Maud 
crossed  it  out  and  put  andante  con  moto." 

"  No,  she  played  me  her  own  piece,  and  I  liked  the 
time  better  than  that  of  my  own.  I  crossed  mine  out. ' ' 

Lucia  thought  over  this  a  moment. 

"  I  crossed  Edgar's  out,"  she  said,  "  and  substituted 
presto;  but  he  got  hold  of  it,  and  wrote  the  old  direc- 
tion in  again:  allegro  ma  non  troppo,  e  ben  marcato." 

"  Yes;  he  always  was  ben  marcato/'  said  Charlie. 

"  And  always  will  be.  But  I  am  learning  that  it  is 
never  the  slightest  use  to  interfere  with  somebody 
else's  tempo.  Everyone  proceeds  at  the  tempo  to  which 
he  was  set.  You  might  as  well  try  to  alter  a  person's 


THE    CLIMBER  241 

character.  You  can  make  people  act  as  if  their  char- 
acters were  not  what  they  are,  but  the  character  itself 
cannot  be  altered  by  other  people  or  by  circumstance 
or  life.  You  can  squeeze  it  and  squash  it  into  all  sorts 
of  other  shapes,  like  those  india-rubber  faces  you  get 
on  crackers ;  you  can  make  it  wear  all  sorts  of  different 
expressions,  but  the  moment  you  put  it  down  it  goes 
back  into  what  it  was  before.  And  tempo  is  decidedly  a 
part  of  character." 

Charlie  laughed. 

' '  Then  we  might  all  of  us  have  spared  our  pains  in 
crossing  each  other's  tempo  out  and  substituting -a  dif- 
ferent one,"  he  said. 

' '  Yes,  that  seems  to  be  the  conclusion.  Not  that  we 
shall  any  of  us  cease  continuing  to  do  so.  You  see, 
character  is  destiny;  that's  what  it  comes  to.  Or  you 
can  call  it  the  divinity — or  something  else — that  shapes 
our  ends,  but  divine  or  not  there  is  something  in  our- 
selves that  shapes  our  ends;  and  that  something  is 
character.  Dear  me,  I  think  I  shall  write  a  small  book 
of  table-aphorisms.  t  Character  is  Destiny,'  shall  be 
the  first.  Yes,  *  Table  Aphorisms  by  a  Lady  of  Title.' 
That's  the  sort  of  thing  which  the  serious-smart  like 
nowadays.  They  think  it  is  so  clever,  and  they  find 
they  can  all  do  it,  which  is  very  gratifying.  Of  course, 
they  can  when  they  are  shown  how.  You  only  have  to 
think  of  an  idea,  and  then  say  it  in  as  few  words  as 
possible." 

"  The  serious-smart?  "  asked  CEarlie.  "  Is  that  the 
same  as  the  New  Set?  " 

"  Of  course;  you  belong  to  it.  Edgar  is  delighted 
with  me  because  he  says  I  invented  it,  brought  it  to- 
gether. He  and  Madge  Heron  were  quarrelling  about 


242  THE   CLIMBER 

it  the  other  day ;  she  says  I  only  precipitated  it,  which 
is  probably  much  nearer  the  mark. ' ' 

*  *  How  precipitated  it  1  " 

1 1  Oh,  don 't  you  know  how,  if  you  drop  some  sort  of 
clear  solution  into  another  clear  solution,  they  both  be- 
come cloudy  or  solid  or  something?  Cloudy  is  more 
the  word  with  the  serious-smart ;  they  are  a  little  vague, 
and  tend  to  confuse  Moroni  with  Murillo." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Charlie  stoutly.  "  I  know  nothing 
about  either.  You  can't  confuse  two  things  if  you  are 
totally  ignorant  of  both  of  them. ' ' 

"  No,  you  are  rather  refreshing.  Oh,  Charlie,  isn't 
it  a  pity  that  I  am  made  in  such  a  way  that  I  instantly 
begin  not  to  care  about  anything  very  much  as  soon 
as  I  have  got  it !  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  if  it  was 
then  taken  away  from  me,  I  should  miss  it.  However, 
there  is  lots  more  to  get,  even  with  regard  to  the 
serious-smart;  in  fact,  it  has  only  just  been  born  and 
baptized.  No;  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Madge  is 
wrong  and  Edgar  is  right.  After  all,  I  did  invent  it ;  it 
is  just  what  I  sketched  out  to  him  three  years  ago,  in 
a  small  backyard  at  Brixham,  with  luggage-trains 
squealing  all  round,  and  Aunt  Cathie  in  sand-shoes  do- 
ing the  pear-tree  touch  while  Aunt  Elizabeth  made 
headrests.  I  don't  mean  that  all  these  things  hap- 
pened actually  together,  but  they  are  the  composition 
of  the  picture.  It  was  then  I  really  had  the  moment  of 
inspiration  which  led  to  all  that  has  happened  since. 
I  told  him  of  my  vision  of  him  as  the  centre  of  an  ar- 
tistic, intellectual  set  of  eager,  beauty-loving  people.  I 
said  the  vision  was  of  him,  but  it  was  really  of  me. 
And  it's  all  coming  true.  We  work,  we  study,  we  ap- 
preciate, we  criticize.  By  the  way,  he  is  going  to  take 


THE   CLIMBER  243 

a  house  at  Fantasie,  near  Baireuth,  for  the  festival, 
and  we  are  going  to  have  a  sort  of  Bowdlerized  Boc- 
caccio party.  There !  again  it  sounds  as  if  I  was  laugh- 
ing at  it,  but  I'm  not,  I'm  not!  " 

' '  I  hadn  't  heard  of  that  before, ' '  said  Charlie. 

* '  No,  it  only  occurred  to  him  yesterday.  I  wish  you 
and  Maud  could  come  with  us,  but  you  will  be  on  the 
honeymoon,  I  suppose.  Oh,  Maud  was  so  divine  the 
other  day — more  divine  than  usual,  I  mean.  Zimpfen 
had  been  playing  the  '  Appassionata  '  at  my  house  too 
perfectly,  and  Gertie  Miller  was  there,  who  is  very, 
very  anxious  to  learn,  the  darling,  but  cannot  avoid  ex- 
posing her  ignorance  in  a  manner  that  is  almost  in- 
decent. Well,  as  you  know,  the  second  and  third  move- 
ments of  the  sonata  are  always  played  as  one,  and  when 
Zimpfen  had  finished,  and  we  were  all  a  good  deal  emo- 
tioned, Gertie  said  to  Maud:  '  Isn't  he  going  to  play 
that  heavenly  last  movement?  '  But  Maud  can't  be 
unkind — except  that  she  told  me  about  it  afterward — 
and  only  said:  '  I  don't  think  we  had  better  ask  Herr 
Zimpfen  for  it ;  I  fancy  he  is  not  satisfied  with  his  ren- 
dering of  it.'  Wasn't  it  darling  of  her?  And  Gertie 
said,  '  Oh,  how  sweet  and  remembering  of  you!  ' 
Where  was  I?  Oh  yes,  you  and  Maud  will  be  honey- 
mooning still,  I  suppose.  Couldn't  you  have  an  eclipse 
for  a  week  and  join  us?  You  will  have  had  a  fortnight 
by  then." 

Charlie  looked  at  her,  smiling. 

"  '  0  moon  of  my  delight  that  knows  no  wane,'  "  he 
quoted. 

"  Then  you  can  easily  spare  a  week,  if  that  is  the 
case,"  said  she. 

"It  is  so  kind  of  you,"  he  said.     "  Personally  I 


244  THE    CLIMBER 

should  love  to  come,  if  we  are  anywhere  within  reach, 

but  I  don't  know  if  Maud " 

"  Oh,  then  Maud  will  love  to  come  too,"  said  Lucia. 

They  had  walked  their  horses  slowly  to  the  west  end 
of  the  mile  by  now,  and  Lucia  looked  longingly  down 
the  broad  brown  ribbon  of  it.  But  she  shook  her  head ; 
the  sun  was  already  high  and  had  wiped  the  washed 
face  of  the  earth ;  it  was  time  to  get  to  work  again. 

"  I  long,  I  just  long  for  another  gallop,"  she  said, 
' l  but  I  am  late  already.  Do  get  Maud  to  come  out  to- 
morrow, and  let  us  start  at  half-past  seven.  We  shall 
get  an  hour  then.  Good-bye,  Charlie;  we  shall  meet 
again  somewhere,  I  suppose,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
minutes." 

11  Mayn't  I  ride  home  with  you?  "  asked  he. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  she.  "  It  would  be  a  pity. 
We  should  have  to  bawl  remarks  at  each  other  if  we 
talked  at  all  in  these  roaring  streets.  Remember  to 
tell  Maud  about  Baireuth. ' ' 

Though  beyond  doubt  the  New  Set,  such  as  it  was, 
had  been  invented  and  prophesied  by  Lucia  three 
years  ago,  Lady  Heron,  in  spite  of  Lucia 's  demur,  was 
more  right  than  Edgar  when  she  said  that  his  wife  had 
only  precipitated  it.  For  just  as  in  Brixham,  in  the 
days  of  the  lean  years,  so  here,  on  a  larger  stage  and 
with  greater  luxury  of  appointment,  Lucia  had  done 
no  more  than  to  make  herself  a  rallying  point.  She 
had,  so  to  speak,  the  quality  of  centrality;  whether  at 
Newnham  or  at  Brixham  or  in  Prince's  Gate,  she  was 
apt  to  be  in  the  middle  of  a  group,  not  revolving  round 
others.  Nor  was  that  strange;  with  her  charm,  her 


THECLIMBEE  245 

• 

position,  her  beauty,  her  brilliant  vitality,  it  was  small 
wonder  that  where  wealth  alone  can  do  so  much,  she 
easily  and  without  effort  made  herself  a  very  central 
situation.  The  imitative  instinct  of  the  world  did  the 
rest;  for  two  years  she  and  her  husband  had  been 
known  to  be  on  a  pilgrimage  of  culture  (on  board  a 
most  luxurious  yacht),  and  culture  this  year  became 
a  craze,  especially  when  it  was  seen  how  delightful  the 
pursuit  of  culture  was.  For  it  was  still  more  than  per- 
missible, it  was  even  desirable,  to  go  much  to  the  Opera, 
to  attend  concerts,  to  stroll  about  the  National  Gallery 
or  the  Tate,  the  spacious  halls  of  which  were  much 
cooler  and  more  airy  in  this  torrid  weather  than  the 
middle-class  suffocation  of  the  Academy.  Dress,  again, 
was  by  no  means  beneath  the  notice  of  the  cultured ;  in- 
deed, in  the  chase  of  beauty  it  was  incumbent  on  its 
huntresses  to  be  exquisite ;  they  had  to  realize  as  com- 
pletely as  they  could  in  themselves  the  ideals  at  which 
they  aimed.  Even  the  palate,  too,  must  share  in  the 
education  of  the  senses,  and  the  lamp  of  Art  must 
shine  in  the  kitchen,  no  less  than  from  glowing  canvas 
and  the  piercing  sweetness  of  the  horns.  Nor  did 
this  renaissance  cause  an  emptying  of  ballrooms. 
Dancing  was  an  exquisite  thing,  an  art;  so,  too,  were 
the  music  of  voices,  the  gleam  of  diamonds,  the  great 
staircase  hung  upon,  as  with  a  swarm  of  bees,  by  the 
brilliant  crowd,  the  entrancing  rhythm  of  the  band. 

All  this  to  Lucia  and  to  many  others  was  absolutely 
real.  She,  like  a  large  minority  of  those  among  whom 
she  moved,  had  a  potential  passion  for  the  beautiful 
and  exquisite  things  of  Life,  but  she  became,  as  has 
been  said,  the  centre  of  what  in  the  microcosm  of  Lon- 
don was  a  real  movement,  because  her  passion  for 


246  THE   CLIMBER 

these  things  was  articulate;  she  understood  with  her 
fine  taste  what  was  fine,  and  she  could  talk  about  it  in 
a  way  that  was  marvellous  to  all  those  whose  emotionsr 
as  is  generally  the  case  with  English  people,  are  the 
subject  on  which  they  are  most  dumb.  She  enjoyed, 
too,  but  not  pedantically,  as  it  is  to  be  feared  her  hus- 
band did ;  he  could  never  completely  get  out  of  his  head 
that  it  was  more  improving  to  the  mind  to  listen  to  a 
Beethoven  symphony  than  to  hold  four  aces  at  bridge,, 
whereas  to  Lucia  these  unimpeachable  moral  senti- 
ments never  occurred  at  all.  She  preferred  Beethoven 
to  bridge  merely  because  she  enjoyed  it  more,  but  she 
could  and  did  play  bridge  with  remarkable  acuteness 
when,  so  to  speak,  Beethoven  was  not  present.  All 
that  was  sincere,  but  what  was  not  less  sincere  was 
that  it  was  all  part  of  her  plan.  She  had  intended  to 
have  everything,  and  she  was  raking  it  in. 

What  had  established  her,  had  made  her  the  authen- 
tic centre  of  this  really  considerable  constellation,  was 
the  Brayton  week.  It  was  extremely  daring,  and,  like 
all  really  daring  things,  unless  it  is  a  fool  who  has 
dared,  it  met  with  the  success  it  merited  and  she  leaped 
on  to  her  throne.  Toward  the  end  of  June  she  had  ob- 
served that  the  second  week  in  July  was  a  perfect  con- 
gestion of  gaiety  in  town,  and  she  had  then  and  there 
written  thirty  notes  to  her  most  intimate  friends,  who, 
like  herself,  would  be  engaged  over  the  page  on  each 
day,  and  asked  them  to  come  down  to  Brayton  for  a 
full  week  from  Monday  to  Monday.  They  were  going, 
so  ran  the  note,  to  have  a  really  nice  time.  There 
would  be  a  band  in  the  house,  and  the  French  company 
were  going  to  play  two — well,  two  nice  little  plays; 
otherwise — it  was  a  little  scratch  gathering — everyone 


THE   CLIMBER  247 

would  do  exactly  as  lie  chose.  There  was  golf  and 
rather  good  fishing,  and  the  garden  was  looking  nice. 
In  fact,  it  would  be  a  sort  of  retreat,  with  a  little  music 
in  the  evening.  No  doubt  lots  of  people  would  come 
down  for  the  day  (underlined)  on  most  of  the  days,  and 
stop  to  dinner  and  go  up  late,  but  she  particularly 
wanted  the  recipient  of  this  note  to  spend  the  whole 
week  there.  It  would  be  so  cool  and  pleasant  to  sit  in 
the  garden  and  read  books,  and  not  talk  unless  you  felt 
inclined,  and  you  must  come.  The  notes  were  all  de- 
livered by  hand. 

Edgar  had  been  simply  craven  over  this  experiment. 

"  They  will  all  refuse,"  he  said,  "  and  where  will 
you  be  then?  You  will  have  to  begin  all  over  again, 
from  the  very  beginning,  and  besides,  London  never 
forgets  a  failure !  ' ' 

Lucia  stared  at  him  in  blank  incomprehension. 

"  Begin  what  all  over  again?  "  she  said.  "  What 
do  you  mean?  London  never  forgets  a  failure?  You 
speak  as  if  I  was  fighting  for  a  place. ' ' 

11  Dear,  it  is  rather  strong  to  expect  people  to  leave 
town  in  the  middle  of  July, ' '  he  said. 

11  Then  they  won't  come,"  said  Lucia,  "  if  they 
don't  want  to.  I  only  want,  and  so  do  you,  to  have  a 
quiet  week.  Personally  I  believe  that  plenty  of  our 
friends  want  it  too.  I  may  be  wrong.  If  I  am,  what 
happens  ?  You  and  I  will  have  our  quiet  week  alone.  I 
shall — I  shall  just  love  it !  " 

"  But  the  band  and  the  French  company?  "  he 
asked. 

Lucia  dimpled  at  him. 

"  I'll  pay  for  it  all,"  she  said,  "  if  it  turns  out  we 
are  to  be  alone,  out  of  the  ridiculously  enormous  allow- 


248  THE   CLIMBER 

ance  you  give  me.  It  is  your  birthday  this  week.  But 
now  explain ;  begin  what  all  over  again f  ' ' 

Edgar  felt  a  thrill  of  wonder  at  her,  as  no  doubt 
she  had  meant  he  should  do.  She  seemed  genuinely 
unconscious,  so  he  thought,  of  the  wonderful  power  she 
was  becoming  in  the  microcosm,  and  the  words  had 
slipped  from  him,  betraying  his  knowledge  of  that  of 
which  she  seemed  so  unaware.  It  was  better  to  ex- 
plain. 

"  I  spoke  as  a  spectator,"  he  said,  "  when  I  should 
have  spoken  as  your  husband.  You  are  doing  such 
wonderful  things,  Lucia;  you  are  realizing  all  your 
dream  for  me  so  completely,  that  I  cannot  help  some- 
times looking  on,  so  to  speak,  observing  how  you  suc- 
ceed. But  I  am  wrong;  it  is  only  you  fulfilling  your- 
self." 

"  Certainly  that  is  all,"  she  said;  "  but  you  still 
distrust  me,  not  my  plan,  any  more,  but  my  instinct. 
"Wait  until  we  get  the  answers  to  my  notes." 

Acceptance  after  acceptance  came  in.  It  appeared 
that  everybody  longed  for  exactly  that  which  Lucia 
had  proposed.  But  Edgar  was  still  timorous. 

' '  But  think  of  the  dinner  parties  you  have  spoiled, ' ' 
he  said.  '  *  You  will  make  an  enemy  for  every  night  of 
the  week." 

"  Hush!  "  said  Lucia,  "  and  go  away.  I  shall  be 
very  busy  for  an  hour.  There  will  be  no  enemies  at  all, 
because  I  am  as  clever  as  I  am  beautiful.  Darling,  tell 
them  to  send  me  up  reams  more  paper  and  packets  of 
envelopes. ' ' 

There  were  five  nights  in  a  week,  Saturday  and  Sun- 
day of  course  not  being  reckoned,  since  everybody 
would  be  out  of  town,  and  Lucia  had  a  dinner  engage- 


THE    CLIMBER  249 

ment  for  four  of  these,  while  on  the  fifth  she  had  a  tiny 
dinner  herself,  with  music  and  people  afterward.  All 
the  diners  had  accepted  her  week,  instead  of  the  din- 
ner, and  she  wrote  to  all  those  who  were  "  coming  in 
afterwards  "  to  ask  them  to  dine  at  Brayton  instead. 
There  would  be  a  special  back  to  town.  Then  she 
crossed  "  Thursday  "  out;  Thursday  was  settled. 

Monday  and  Tuesday — she  had  to  consider  very 
carefully.  They  were  dining  with  the  Duchess  of 
Wiltshire  on  Monday,  and  with  Mrs.  Eddis  on  the 
Tuesday.  She  wrote  to  the  Duchess  first,  who  was  one 
of  the  intimes,  though  at  present  she  had  not  asked  her 
for  the  week. 

"  DARLING  MOUSE: 

"  Don't  be  cross,  but  do  let  me  be  rude,  and  not  dine 
with  you  on  Monday,  July  6th.  Because  Edgar  and  I 
are  going  to  give  a  quiet  week  down  at  Brayton,  and  I 
want  you  most  awfully  to  come  there  on  Tuesday,  and 
stop  till  the  following  Monday.  Do  come;  the  whole 
world  is  going  to  be  there,  I  hope,  and  the  French  com- 
pany for  two  nights,  and  we  really  shall  have  great 
fun.  We  shall  read  books,  and  sit  on  the  lawn,  and 
play  golf,  and  I  personally  shall  talk  to  you  all  the 
time,  if  you  will  let  me." 

Mrs.  Eddis — it  was  better  to  write  to  Maud: 

"  Maud,  it's  too  awful.  I've  asked  heaps  of  people 
down  for  a  whole  week  at  Brayton  from  July  6th,  and 
now  I  see  I  am  dining  with  you  on  the  7th.  If  you  can 
forgive  me,  come  down  on  the  Wednesday,  as  you  can't 
come  before,  or,  of  course,  otherwise  I  should  have  in- 


250  THE   CLIMBER 

sisted  on  your  spending  the  whole  week  with  us.  Do 
say  '  Yes.'  I  think  I  will  promise  that  Charlie  says 
'  Yes  '  when  he  knows. 

"  Yours, 

"  LUCIA." 

Here  Lucia  bit  her  pen  for  a  moment.  No;  it  didn't 
matter  about  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eddis.  She  would  never 
know  if  they  were  friends  or  enemies.  Who  cared? 

Wednesday  and  Friday  alone  remained.  She  did 
not  want  either  of  her  hosts  on  those  nights  to  stay  at 
Brayton,  but  she  wrote  the  most  charming  letter  to 
each,  asking  them  to  come  down  (special)  and  dine  on 
each  other's  nights,  and  hear  respectively  the  string 
band  and  the  French  play.  As  a  postscript,  she  gave 
them  her  opera  box  on  Monday  and  Tuesday. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eddis!  She  sighed  at  her  own 
thoroughness,  and  opened  the  note  to  Maud,  though 
she  had  already  closed  it,  and  added  that  she  would  be 
so  delighted  if  her  father  and  mother  would  use  her 
box  on  Wednesday.  Then  she  telephoned  to  the  box 
office,  to  tell  them  to  let  it  on  the  three  remaining  days 
of  the  week  if  they  could. 

Such  were  the  preparations  for  the  Brayton  week. 
As  they  proceeded,  Lucia  saw  what  she  had  not  fully 
grasped  at  first,  the  magnitude  of  its  significance,  if  it 
succeeded.  Nobody  had  ever  done  anything  like  it  be- 
fore, and  to  plan  it  and  execute  it  at  the  last  moment 
had  the  daring  of  genius.  True,  if  it  failed,  she  would 
have  not  only  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  which  was  as 
far  as  Edgar's  purblind  vision  had  taken  him,  but  to 
begin  at  a  disadvantage,  as  a  minus  quantity.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  it  succeeded,  she  would  leap  at  one  bound 


THE   CLIMBER  251 

to  an  astonishing  preeminence.  To  empty  London  for  a 
week  in  the  middle  of  the  season  (as  the  world  counts 
empty)  had  hitherto  been  the  office  of  some  institu- 
tion only  like  Ascot.  And  as  the  hours  went  on,  and 
the  telephone  rang,  or  notes  were  brought  her,  she  saw 
that  she  had  not  been  rash,  only  daring.  Everyone 
was  coming;  they  could  settle  their  differences  and  in- 
convenience among  themselves ;  they  had  thrown  each 
other  over  right  and  left  in  order  to  come  to  Brayton. 
On  the  minor  readjustments  which  her  plan  had  en- 
tailed, she  no  longer  cared  to  speculate ;  as  far  as  the 
Brayton  week  went,  her  balloon  was  above  the  clouds ; 
it  might  be  raining  below ;  umbrellas  and  apologies 
might  be  running  about  in  all  directions,  but  she  had 
serene  weather. 

The  foundation  of  the  grand  success  was  laid ;  every- 
body was  coming,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  season,  at 
notice  so  short  that  it  might  be  called  a  summons 
rather  than  a  notice.  But  Lucia  said  no  "  Nunc 
Dimittis  ' '  yet,  nor  did  she  lose  her  head.  Instead,  she 
planned  every  hour  of  those  days,  all  seven  of  them, 
so  that  while  every  one  of  her  guests  would  feel  free 
to  do  as  the  spirit  prompted,  he  would  find  that  some 
admirable  occupation  was  ready,  in  case  it  recom- 
mended itself  to  him.  Till  lunch  time  each  day  a  care- 
ful blank  was  left  by  her,  but  she  arranged  that  motor- 
cars, golf-caddies,  and  fishing  gillies  were  lurking  like 
wild  beasts  round  the  corner,  ready  to  pounce.  There 
would  be  lunch  indoors  or  out-of-doors  as  the  weather 
dictated,  but  that  would  be  as  informal  as  the  affairs 
of  the  morning.  But — here  again  she  showed  herself 
daring — at  half -past  five  the  formal  day  began.  Her 
dinner  guests  would  be  arriving  by  then,  and  she  (ap- 


252  THE    CLIMBER 

pearing  for  the  first  time  that  day,  if  so  she  chose) 
would  receive  them  on  the  deep  loggia  which  had  been 
built  the  year  before  to  take  the  place  of  the  veranda 
where  Edgar  and  Charlie  had  lounged  and  drank  their 
coffee  after  lunch  three  years  ago.  It  stretched  out 
thirty  feet  from  the  windows  of  the  big  drawing-room, 
darkening  it  considerably,  which,  as  Lucia  pointed  out, 
was  without  consequence,  since  the  room  was  never 
used  till  after  dinner.  It  ran  half  the  length  of  the 
house,  a  hundred  feet  at  the  least,  and  at  one  end  was 
a  raised  stage  where  the  band  would  be  placed,  and 
where,  when  it  was  shut  in  down  all  its  length  with 
wooden  shutters,  the  French  company  would  play  after 
dinner.  At  tea,  then,  the  more  elaborate  part  of  the 
simple  day  would  begin.  For  those  who  wanted  to 
hear  music,  there  would  be  the  band;  for  those  who 
wanted  to  talk,  there  would  be  the  garden;  while  she 
would  occupy  the  central  position,  able  to  stroll  with 
those  who  wished  to  stroll,  able  to  move  a  little  to  the 
left  and  hear  the  music. 

Dinner  would  follow,  and  again  she  gave  accident  no 
chance,  going  through  the  menu  for  each  evening, 
weighing,  so  to  speak,  the  value  of  each  dish,  not  in 
itself,  but  in  its  relation  to  the  dinner.  Clever  as  her 
chef  was,  he  was  but  a  weak  campaigner  in  comparison 
with  his  mistress,  and  it  was  not  till  Lucia  pointed  out 
that  three  days  of  salmon  out  of  seven  was  an  excess 
of  that  admirable  fish  that  his  mind  awoke  to  the  fact. 
But,  with  a  thousand  pardons,  what  was  to  be  done? 
Miladi  could  not  have  seven  different  fish.  There  were 
no  seven  fish  to  be  eaten. 

Lucia  gave  this  her  full  consideration. 

"  Then  on  Thursday  we  will  have  no  fish  at  all," 


THE   CLIMBER  253 

she  said ; ' '  and  on  Friday  we  will  have  herrings.  Her- 
rings! There  is  nothing  better.  Mustard  sauce,  and 
plain  fried  herrings.  Is  it  fried?  They  are  browner 
on  one  side  than  on  the  other.  That  makes  Friday's 
dinner  all  wrong.  Let  us  begin  it  again.  It  must  be  all 
plain,  quite  plain.  Bonne  femme,  the  herrings,  sans 
blague,  Adolph,  I  mean  it.  Then — then  little  bits  of 
lamb,  yes,  you  can  get  lamb  in  July  if  you  insist,  quite 
little  lamb,  done  up  round,  epigrammes  d'agneau,  that 
is  it.  But  neat  epigrams,  you  know.  Then " 

M.  Adolph  waved  his  hands  in  French  despair. 

"  But  dinner  for  the  bourgeois,  miladi,"  he  said. 

"  Not  at  all.  Epigrammes  d'agneau — yes.  Then 
cold  beef,  do  you  understand?  Plain  cold  beef,  with 
horse-radish  sauce,  and  endive  salad.  Yes,  I  know 
what  I  am  saying,  endive  salad.  Then  one  vegetable. 
Asparagus  is  so  common.  Make  something  out  of  cab- 
bage, Adolph.  Only  cabbage,  I  charge  you.  Then — 
no,  no  bird  at  all,  absolutely  no  bird.  Then  apple  tart, 
please — plain  apple  tart.  After  that  toasted  cheese, 
a  pate — no,  not  either.  Apple-tart  and  the  dessert. 
But  please  see  that  the  coffee  is  good.  Do  not  grind 
it  till  the  apple-tart  comes  up.  And  that  evening  we 
will  have  an  English  menu — soup,  herrings,  lamb,  cold 
beef,  cabbage,  apple-tart.  Saturday — yes,  perhaps  you 
had  better  put  in  an  extra  entree.  Cailles  a  la  Lindsay 
would  do.  Mr.  Charlie  will  be  down  that  night.  But 
they  must  be  served  in  separate  little  casseroles,  and 
over  each  you  must  pour  the  juice  of  another  quail. 
And  little  squares  of  toast  served  with  it;  so  that  the 
juice  can  be  eaten.  How  good !  ' ' 

' '  But  miladi  never  eats  quail, ' '  said  Adolph. 

"  No,  but  other  people  do.    That  is  all,  Adolph.    I 


254  THE    CLIMBER 

want  you  to  take  particular  pains  over  this  week.  You 
can  get  extra  help  if  you  need  it.  There  will  be  about 
thirty  for  breakfast  and  lunch  every  day,  and  I  expect 
about  seventy  to  dinner.  Wait  a  moment." 

Lucia  rang  a  bell,  and  a  male  secretary  appeared. 

"  The  Brayton  week,"  she  said.  "  The  numbers 
only " 

She  looked  quickly  at  the  list. 

"That  is  all,  is  it?"  she  asked.  "Very  well, 
Adolph.  On  Monday  we  shall  be  fifty-one.  Tuesday, 
Wednesday,  about  sixty.  Thursday — please  pay  atten- 
tion— the  special  will  arrive  at  five,  and  so  you  must 
make  preparations  for  tea  as  well,  and  they  will  all 
stop  to  dinner,  a  hundred  and  forty.  They  will  not 
leave  till  quite  late — no,  no  supper,  but  plenty  of  sand- 
wiches and  ice  and  fruit.  Friday,  Saturday,  these  are 
the  numbers.  On  Monday  you  can  go  back  to  town. 
Just  leave  a  marmiton;  his  lordship  and  I  may  not  re- 
turn till  Tuesday." 

The  infinite  capacity  for  attention  to  details  cer- 
tainly characterized  Lucia.  She  cared  not  a  cheese- 
straw  what  she  ate,  herself  alone  considered,  provided 
that,  however  plain,  it  was  clean  and  excellent  of  its 
kind;  but  she  knew,  supremely  well,  how  large  a  part 
of  life  is  played  by  palate  and  digestion.  She  could  not 
give  her  guests  digestion,  but  with  great  wisdom  she 
spent  a  couple  of  hours  over  the  consideration  of  how 
she  would  make  their  meals  suitable  to  the  state  of 
mind  that  she  hoped  they  would  be  in.  Dinner  on  Fri- 
day, for  instance,  was  intimately  connected  with  the 
music.  The  French  company  was  not  going  to  act  that 
day;  there  would  be  the  band  only,  and  arranging  the 
music  first,  she  had  arranged  a  corresponding  dinner. 


THE   CLIMBER  255 

Friday,  indeed,  was  to  be  the  crucial  day.  On  Thurs- 
day there  was  going  to  be  a  French  play,  which  per- 
haps was  almost  too On  Saturday  there  was  go- 
ing to  be  a  third  play  (this  she  had  not  announced  in 
her  invitations,  and  it  was  a  surprise),  which  was  also 
very  French.  Friday,  therefore,  in  order  to  enhance 
the  memory  of  Thursday,  and  to  anticipate  Saturday, 
must  be  plainly  exquisite.  The  band  would  play  the 
Suite  in  D,  by  Bach,  after  tea,  and  on  that  day — and 
on  that  day  alone — she  meant  to  go  to  church,  at  seven 
in  the  evening,  a  short  service  to  be  over  by  half-past 
seven,  so  that  there  would  be  time  to  dress  for  dinner 
if  one  chose.  Then,  after  the  plain  dinner,  there  would 
be  more  simple  music.  Mestra  was  coming  down  that 
night;  he  would  play  the  Handel  Sonata  in  A,  for  the 
violin.  Lucia,  planning  this  day,  almost  had  a  fit,  so 
she  told  Edgar,  at  the  thought  of  the  slovenly  proceed- 
ings that  in  the  general  way  characterized  hostesses. 

"  Who  wants  to  listen  to  Bach  after  a  great  fat  din- 
ner ?  ' '  she  said ;  '  *  or  who  would  want  to  look  at  *  Ami 
Intime  '  after  cold  beef,  such  as  we  shall  have  on  Fri- 
day ?  To  be  any  use,  you  must  arrange  the  whole  menu 
of  the  day.  You  must  make  your  arrangements,  not 
only  for  what  your  people  eat,  but  for  what  they  do." 

'  *  What  they  do  depends  on  the  weather, ' '  said  he. 

"  Yes,  darling,  but  I  don't.  I  look  further  ahead 
than  that.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  will  give  them  a  fat, 
stuffy  dinner  if  it  has  been  wet!  Not  at  all.  There  are 
two  menus  for  every  day.  If  it  has  been  hot  and  fine, 
and  everybody  has  been  out  of  doors,  you  will  get  menu 
A.  If  it  has  been  wet  and  rainy,  so  that  at  the  utmost 
we  have  walked  under  umbrellas  or  played  billiards  and 
bridge,  you  will  get  menu  B.  Oh,  I  am  not  an  ass !  " 


256  THE   CLIMBER 

That  was  thoroughness  again;  Lucia  certainly  was 
not  an  ass.  The  audacity  of  the  Brayton  week,  which 
appeared  so  unpremeditated,  had  to  be  solidly  medi- 
tated over.  She  had  to  provide,  and  did,  for  fine 
weather  and  wet  weather,  in  so  far  as  she  could. 
Whatever  was  the  conduct  of  the  possible  winds  and 
clouds,  she  had  to  be  prepared  with  a  counter-check  to 
any  devilish  mano3uvres  on  their  part.  She  was  climb- 
ing, and  knew  it;  the  essential  thing  was  that  nobody 
else  should  see  she  was  climbing.  She  must  appear  to 
the  world  as  having  arrived,  appear  as  one  who  had 
only  to  write  a  few  notes  in  order  to  fill  her  country 
house  with  guests  while  yet  July  was  scarcely  middle- 
aged.  She  had  done  that.  She  had  done  it  in  such  a 
way  that  it  appeared  effortless.  There  happened  to  be 
a  French  company  playing  at  Brayton,  and  an  excel- 
lent band;  there  were  a  few  special  trains  to  be  ar- 
ranged for,  all  of  which,  though  hideously  expensive 
from  one  point  of  view,  were  extraordinarily  cheap,  if 
they  got  her  what  she  wanted — namely,  a  fashionable 
exodus  from  town.  And  Edgar  wanted  that  sort  of 
thing  no  less  than  she.  The  intellectual  renaissance 
which  Lady  Heron  had  spoken  of  had  impressed  him 
enormously.  It  bore  out  Lucia 's  original  prophecy  for 
him,  and  he  felt  confidence,  as  was  most  reasonable,  in 
her  power  of  getting  into  practical  shape  what  she  had 
prophesied  about.  Even  the  special  trains  did  not  stag- 
ger him.  To  entice  fifty  people  out  of  town  in  order 
to  have  dinner,  see  a  play,  and  go  back  again  that  night, 
was  clearly  a  feat.  He  respected  feats,  being  himself 
capable  of  imagining  them,  but  wholly  incapable  of  do- 
ing them. 

No  feat  can  be  perfectly  calculated ;  blind  luck  may 


THE    CLIMBER  257 

spoil  the  most  thorough  plans,  but  in  regard  to  the 
Brayton  week,  blind  luck  had  ranged  itself  on  Lucia's 
side.  It  was  not  merely  that  a  spell  of  prodigious  heat 
drove  the  gasping  out  of  town,  or  that  the  weather, 
so  intolerable  there,  was  of  brisk  warmth  only  down  in 
Hampshire;  it  was  that  the  world  in  general  was  in- 
terested at  that  particular  and  psychological  moment 
in  Lucia,  the  girl  from  nowhere,  who  looked  like  Aphro- 
dite fresh  from  the  sea,  and  had  had  the  cheek — yes, 
the  cheek — to  ask  everybody  to  leave  London  at  its 
midmost  and  spend  quiet  days  in  the  country.  But 
what  was  originally  cheek  became,  as  the  week  went 
on,  the  kind  of  genius  that  London  respected.  Lucia 
did  not  give  them  the  precepts  of  the'  lecture  on  the 
delectable  life ;  she  gave  the  delectable  life  itself.  She 
had  anticipated  their  inclinations,  and  anybody  who 
felt  inclined  to  do  anything  found  that  the  implements 
and  adjuncts  of  his  inclinations  were  at  hand.  Among 
her  guests,  for  instance,  there  were  two  or  three  so- 
cialistic aristocrats — they  found  a  Labour  Member  or 
two  coming  down  by  special  train,  and  a  polished  writer 
of  suburban  plays  who  spoke  of  the  intellectual  move- 
ment going  on  in  Tooting.  There  were  musicians  there 
— pure  and  simple  musicians — who  on  Friday  after  a 
cold-beef  dinner  (with  excellent  wine),  listened  to 
Bach,  while  the  moon  was  reflected  in  the  lake.  There 
were  others  who  liked — well,  they  liked  the  French 
plays.  All  who  could  possibly  help  Lucia  at  that  period 
were  catered  for;  she  fed  them  all,  she  entertained 
them  all,  she  provided  congenial  pursuits  for  them. 
It  was  the  planting  of  her  garden,  the  sowing  of  seed 
with  lavish  hand.  Later,  no  doubt,  she  would  lead, 
would  choose  her  line,  for  it  appeared  to  her  that  of 


258  THE    CLIMBER 

all  the  various  types  of  fool  that  the  world  supplied 
there  was  none  so  abject  as  that  which  continued  to 
be  of  the  menagerie  order.  If  you  liked  tigers,  have 
tigers;  if  you  liked  parrots,  have  parrots.  But  why 
anybody  who  had  "  arrived  "  kept  a  menagerie,  she, 
with  her  cool,  clever  brain,  could  not  imagine.  The 
point  of  the  world  was  to  pick  out  from  it  what  you 
wished  to  do,  and  to  do  it  only;  to  see  those  about 
whom  you  wished  to  see.  But  you  had  to  see  them 
all  first. 

To-day,  after  her  ride  .with  Charlie,  she  knew  that 
she  would  be  called  upon  to  go  gardening  in  herself, 
for  she  was  to  lunch  all  alone  with  Lady  Heron,  and 
this  all-alone  lunch  was  the  upshot  of  several  inter- 
rupted conversations,  several  beckoning  glances,  that 
had  passed  between  them.  In  spite  of  the  brilliant  suc- 
cess of  the  Brayton  week,  Lucia  knew  quite  well  that 
there  was  something  that  sat  between  her  and  above 
that  kind  of  success.  In  that  week,  she  had  made  her 
definite  mark :  she  had  ' '  pied-pipered  ' '  London  down 
to  the  country,  but — but  she  knew  she  had  "  pied-pip- 
ered ' '  it.  What  she  really  wanted  was  to  do  that  with- 
out effort,  because  it  was  natural  to  her  to  ask  her 
friends,  and  because  it  was  natural  in  her  friends  to 
come.  But  that  week  had  been  an  effort ;  she  had  had 
to  think,  to  plan.  She  wanted  to  get  where  no  plan- 
ning was  necessary,  to  issue  her  inclinations  to  the 
world  and  have  them  gratified ;  to  admit  the  world  into 
her  own  private  manner  of  passing  her  time.  In  this 
week  at  Brayton  she  had  studied  the  world's  inclina- 
tions and  gratified  them;  between  that  and  the  more 
regal  style,  as  she  already  dimly  guessed,  there  was  a 
world  of  difference.  Three-quarters  or  more  of  the 


THE    CLIMBER  259 

busy  climbers  in  London  would  have  been  ecstatically 
satisfied  with  what  she  had  already  achieved;  she  had 
the  brains  to  use  this  success  only  as  a  fresh  spring- 
board to  higher  branches.  Others  never  thought  of  do- 
ing more  than  they  had  already  done;  only  last  Sunday, 
indeed,  Lucia  had  gone  down  to  spend  the  afternoon 
and  dine  with  a  largely  entertaining  hostess  near  King- 
ston at  a  royal  and  select  party.  But  how  stupid  and 
bourgeois  it  all  was !  A  prima-donna  had  sung,  an 
actor  had  spoken  a  scene,  Eoyalty  had  eaten  and  gig- 
gled ;  everything  was  exactly  as  it  had  been  on  similar 
Sundays  for  the  last  ten  years.  That  sort  of  repetition 
was  so  aimless,  yet  people  were  gratified  at  being  asked, 
and  thought  it  all  so  smart  and  so  wonderful.  It 
seemed  to  Lucia  that  the  only  wonderful  thing  about  it 
was  that  people  thought  it  smart.  You  stopped  reading 
a  letter  or  a  book  if  it  began  to  repeat  itself;  surely 
you  had  better  stop  entertaining  if  you  could  think  of 
nothing  new  to  say  or  do. 

Madge  Heron  had  kept  her  word  about  Lucia 's  lunch 
with  her  to-day  being  an  all-alone  lunch,  and  a  tiny 
table  was  laid  for  them  in  the  corner  of  the  balcony 
outside  the  ballroom,  already  awninged  in,  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  dance  she  wa^  giving  this  evening.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  keeping  of  this  tete-a-tete  engage- 
ment was  entirely  in  accordance  with  her  own  wishes ; 
she  wanted  very  much  to  have  a  talk  with  Lucia  alone, 
for  she  was  immensely  interested  in  her,  immensely  at- 
tracted by  her,  and  up  till  now  Lucia's  self  (though 
not  her  success)  puzzled  and  interested  her.  That 
bright  reflecting  surface  on  which  life  so  shone  and 
sparkled,  naturally  dazzled  and  attracted  this  pleasure- 
seeking  brain  of  London,  and  her  freshness  and  origi- 


260  THE    CLIMBER 

nality  were  sufficient  to  assure  her  success.  She  was 
something  of  a  new  type  also,  a  woman  who  really  was 
desperately  in  earnest  about  appreciation  of  all  that 
was  fine  from  an  artistic  point  of  view ;  she  had  at  least 
precipitated  a  New  Set,  and  without  affectation  those 
who  were  of  it  would  prefer,  even  in  the  height  of  the 
season,  to  spend  an  hour  at  the  Tate  rather  than  at 
Hurlingham.  There  had  been  sets  like  it  before,  but 
Lady  Heron  found  a  new  note  in  Lucia's  precipitate; 
she  and  hers  really  knew  about  what  they  admired: 
they  did  not  only  ' '  thrill, ' '  as  other  sets  had  done. 

But  all  this  Lady  Heron  believed  to  be  only  the  sur- 
face of  Lucia;  what  lay  below,  whether  she  was  kind 
or  selfish,  good  or  bad,  she  had  at  present  no  idea.  It 
was  that  she  wanted  to  find  out,  and  now,  whereas 
a  few  weeks  ago  Lucia  had  considerably  studied  her,  it 
was  she  to-day  who  wanted  to  study  Lucia  no  less. 

Lucia  appeared,  as  always,  with  a  rush.  On  this  oc- 
casion she  hurried  upstairs  before  Lady  Heron's  wan- 
faced  butler  could  overtake  her,  and  came  into  the 
room  some  eight  yards  in  advance  of  him,  while  he 
gasped  her  name  out  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
door. 

"  Dearest  Madge,"  she  said,  "  and  nobody  else  is 
here,  is  there?  How  heavenly  of  you!  Oh,  I  wish  I 
had  large  brown  eyes  like  you,  and  grey  hair!  As  it 
is,  I  lack  impressiveness.  I've  ridden,  I've  been  to  see 
the  Rodin  Exhibition — I  shan't  go  there  again — I've 
been  to  my  dressmaker,  and  I  want  lunch  more  than  I 
can  possibly  tell  you.  How  are  you!  " 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Rodin?  "  asked  Lady 
Heron. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  explain — yes,  perhaps  it  is 


THE   CLIMBER  261 

that  his  things  are  quite  small,  I  mean  in  actual  size, 
but  on  a  scale  as  big  as  a  nightmare.  Things  on  a  big 
scale  must  be  of  a  certain  size,  just  as  things  on  a  small 
scale  must  be  of  a  certain  smallness.  You  can't  have 
Hercules,  or  Day  or  Night  or  Morning  to  stand  on  the 
top  of  a  clock,  any  more  than  you  could  have  a  Dres- 
den shepherdess  nine  feet  high.  Also,  if  a  man  never 
finishes  his  work  at  all,  you  can't  help  wondering  if  it 
is  because  he  can't.  Gertie  Miller  was  there,  gasping. 
She  has  taken  to  gasping,  because  she  doesn't  really 
know  what  she  feels  about  a  thing,  and  if  she  gasps 
she  can't  talk.  And  Charlie  and  Maud  turned  up.  I 
rode  with  Charlie  this  morning.  Do  you  know,  I  have 
scarcely  set  eyes  on  you  since  the  Brayton  week?  I 
want  to  ask  you  such  a  heap  of  questions." 

* '  About  it  ?  There  is  no  need  for  any  question  at  all. 
It  was  quite  beyond  question.  I  don't  know  anybody 
else  who  could  have  done  it  like  that.  It  seemed  per- 
fectly effortless,  and  so  I  suspect  that  it  was  most  care- 
fully planned. ' ' 

Lucia  nodded. 

"  I  should  just  think  it  was,"  she  said.  "  I  tried  to 
leave  nothing  to  chance." 

Lucia  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

11  I  came  here  for  tuition,"  she  said.  "  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  your  plan.  It  seems  to  me  that  anybody  who 
does  anything  must  have  a  plan,  like  the  string  that 
keeps  the  beads  of  a  necklace  together.  It  is  invisible, 
but  it  runs  through  them  all,  keeping  them  together, 
making  a  whole  of  them,  instead  of  a  series  of  detached 
beads  that  run  into  corners  and  get  lost.  Or  am  I 
wrong!  " 

Madge  Heron  considered  her  answer.    She  felt  that 


262  THE    CLIMBER 

Lucia  was  talking  far  below  the  surface,  as  it  were; 
she  was  not  talking,  at  any  rate,  from  the  Brayton- 
week  standpoint.  But  before  she  answered  Lucia  went 
on: 

"  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?  "  she  said.  "  It  is  that 
I  should  consider  it  a  dreadfully  stupid  thing  to  do,  if 

I  only  went  on  giving  Brayton  weeks,  so  to  speak.    I 
gave  that  one  because  I  thought  it  would  amuse  people, 
and  because — to  be  perfectly  frank — I  wanted  to  get  a 
foot  down  firmly.    But  after  that,  what  next?    That 
was  just  a  bead.    "What  is  to  be  the  string!    Of  course, 
oneself,  one's  character,  is  the  string;  but  what  is  one- 
self?   I  know  the  shell  of  it,  the  case  of  it,  and  that 
is  love  of  art,  love  of  beautiful  things,  love  of  worldly 
success,  if  you  like.    Oh,  I  do  like  that  enormously;  it 
is  the  greatest  fun.    But  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  that 
is  mine.    Now,  I  want  to  stand  firmly  upon  all  that,  and 
jump  somewhere  else.    Where?    Where  do  you  jump 
to?  " 

This,  again,  came  from  below.  Madge  Heron  had 
sufficiently  considered  her  answer. 

"  It  depends  on  your  power  of  wanting,"  she  said, 

II  and  what  your  power  of  wanting  is  you  must  find  out 
for  yourself;  nobody,  except  a  woman's  husband,  per- 
haps, can  teach  her." 

Lucia  looked  up  in  a  sort  of  comic  dismay. 

11  Oh,  but  Edgar  can't  teach  me  anything,"  she  said. 
* '  I  had  a  rhapsody  of  wanting  once,  and  rhapsodied  to 
him,  and  he  didn't  understand  the  feeling  even.  It's  I 
who  make  him  want." 

"  But  you  propose  to  jump  hand  in  hand?  "  asked 
Madge. 

To  herself  she  added :  *  *  She  has  never  loved  him. ' ' 


THE    CLIMBER  263 

Lucia  puckered  up  her  eyebrows  for  a  moment,  but 
at  once  grasped  this. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  I  never  contem- 
plated any  other  plan." 

"  She  has  never  loved  anybody  else,"  thought 
Madge. 

Lucia  leaned  forward  again. 

"  He  jumps  beautifully,"  she  said;  "  the — the  only 
thing  is  that  he  looks  back  to  see  what  a  beautiful  jump 
it  has  been.  But  I  want  to  hear  more  about  the  string 
of  the  necklace.  He  can't  teach  me,  and  I  know  so  little 
about  it  myself.  Do  suggest  things." 

Madge  Heron  laughed  quietly ;  she  saw  now  why  she 
knew  so  little  about  Lucia,  for  at  present  there  was  so 
little  to  know.  Lucia  had  never  really  dived  into  her- 
self, she  had  never  really  brought  up  the  things  that 
lay  in  the  deep  water.  Her  scoopings,  her  self-revela- 
tion, had  all  been  made  in  the  shallows,  just  as  her 
tastes,  her  achievements,  had  all  been  affairs  of  sur- 
face currents.  But  she  was  conscious  anyhow  of  the 
possibility  of  depths,  and  Madge  wondered  if  already 
some  tremor  or  agitation  from  them  had  just  vibrated 
upwards  to  the  shining  surface. 

' '  Dear  Lucia, ' '  she  said, ' '  you  are  a  brilliant,  beau- 
tiful child.  Just  that.  And  a  certain  weird  gift  of 
doing  the  right  thing  in  the  right  way  is  yours.  Now 
do  answer  a  question  or  two.  I  long  to  know  about  you 
just  as  much  as  you  long  to  know  about  yourself.  Sup- 
posing— supposing  that  funny  old  aunt  of  yours  whom 
you  told  me  about  was  dying  and  wanted  to  see  you, 
and  to  see  her  you  had  to  leave  town  at  2.30,  and  there 
was  going  to  be  performed  an  unpublished  opera  of 
Wagner's  in  the  evening,  what  would  you  do!  " 


264  THE    CLIMBER 

Lucia  laughed ;  the  laugh  already  answered  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  dreadful  sort  of  question,"  she  said, 
11  and  I  don't  see  how  it — oh,  I  should  go,  of  course, 
and  see  her,  and  hurry  back  to  town.  There  would  be 
heaps  of  time. '  ' 

"  But  if  you  could  not  get  back?  " 

11  Oh,  Frau-conf essorin !  "  said  Lucia,  hiding  her 
eyes  for  a  moment.  Then  she  looked  up  again  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  I  shouldn't  go,"  she  said.  "  Isn't  it  awful?  But 
I  shouldn't.  Would  you,  if  you  felt  like  me  about 
Wagner?  " 

*  *  Assuredly  not.  But  then  I  know  about  the  string 
of  my  necklace." 

They  had  already  finished  lunch,  and  Lucia  got  up 
and  took  a  big  basket  chair  next  Lady  Heron.  She  did 
not  appear  to  notice  the  last  remark ;  at  least,  her  an- 
swer did  not  bear  on  it.  She  was  looking  quite  grave, 
and  a  certain  shrewdness  and  sharpness  of  expression 
had  come  into  her  face. 

"  But  I  know  all  that,"  she  said.  "  I  found  out  long 
ago  that  I  was  not  kind,  not  soft-hearted.  You  see,  if  I 
want  a  thing,  I  want  it  very  badly.  I  wonder  if  you 
would  be  shocked  if  I  told  you  something.  No,  I  don't 
think  you  would.  Well,  it  is  this:  I  knew  quite  well 
when  Edgar  and  I  met  at  Brixham  that  Maud,  my  best 
friend,  you  know,  was  a  good  deal  attracted  by  him. 
But  that  seemed  to  me  no  reason  why  I  should  not — 
well,  do  what  I  could.  So  I  did  my  best  to  make  him 
want  me.  I  think  it  would  have  been  foolish  to  do 
otherwise.  I  don't  think  it  was  mean;  I  think  it  was 


THE    CLIMBER  265 

sensible.  Maud  saw  it  in  the  same  light.  She  realized 
that  I  could  not  help  myself." 

Lady  Heron  could  not  help  interrupting  with  a  flash 
of  a  question. 

"  Since  you,  too,  were  in  love  with  him?  "  she  asked. 

There  was  a  slight  pause. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Lucia.  "  So  I  am  not  kind,  you 
see,"  she  added  in  a  moment.  "  I  wanted  you  to  tell 
me  something  new  about  myself.  Or  about  you.  You 
said  you  .knew  the  story  of  your  necklace." 

Madge  Heron's  handsome  but  rather  hard  face  soft- 
ened a  little  and  looked  extraordinarily  young  under 
its  beautiful  grey  hair.  She  liked  Lucia,  she  was  at- 
tracted by  her,  and  at  the  moment  she  was  very  sorry 
for  her.  Clearly,  to  her  acute  eye,  Lucia's  nature  had 
never  been  awakened  at  all;  all  that  she  had  attained 
had  been  won  by  mere  brain-work;  she  had  been  a 
clever  child,  winning  prizes  at  school.  And  the  awak- 
ening to  life  was,  in  Madge's  opinion,  a  painful  proc- 
ess to  most  women,  if  it  came  after  they  were  out  in 
the  world  and  married,  for  it  was  always  associated 
with  the  thought  of  what  might  have  been.  A  choice, 
too,  was  then  set  before  them,  as  to  whether  they  would 
behave  as  if  they  were  content,  or — grab,  steal  what 
was  not  theirs.  She  had  been  through  that  late  awak- 
ening herself,  and  she  had  chosen.  Some  day,  unless, 
as  now  appeared  extremely  unlikely,  Lucia  fell  in  love 
with  her  husband,  she,  too,  would  have  to  choose.  From 
the  direction  and  trend  of  her  previous  achievements, 
it  was  not  difficult  to  guess  what  her  choice  would  be. 
Yet  it  was  a  pity;  and  a  certain  vague  regret  that 
stirred  in  Madge  herself  tinged  what  she  said. 

"  My  dear,  I  will  preach  you  a  little  sermon  on  bead- 


266  THE   CLIMBEE 

strings,"  she  said;  "  not  on  my  string,  nor  on  yours, 
but  on  strings  in  the  abstract." 

Lucia 's  face  lit  up  with  that  brilliant  child-like  smile, 
and  she  moved  her  chair  a  little  closer. 

"  Ah,  that  will  be  delightful!  "  she  said.  "  I  shall 
love  to  hear  a  little  sermon  from  you.  It  is  sure  to  be 
clear-cut  and  incisive,  like  your  life." 

"  I  will  try  to  make  it  clear.  Now,  dear,  with  all 
your  success,  your — your  everything — you  don't  yet 
know  in  the  least  degree  what  life  is.  You  haven't  even 
decided,  you  know,  if  your  string — that  is  yourself, 
your  character — is  to  be  black  or  white.  You  talk 
charmingly  about  character ;  you  are  full  of  cleverness 
and  perception;  but  when  you  talk  about  it,  it  is  as  if 
you  played — let  me  see — the  *  Appassionata  '  up  at  the 
top  of  the  piano.  It  is  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle.  It  doesn't 
go  down  to  the  depths.  And  it  can't  because  you  have 
never  been  there.  All  you  have  done  has  been  done 
with  your  brain." 

Lucia  gave  a  delighted  little  sigh. 

* '  Oh,  it  is  too  fascinating !  ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  mean 
that  even  now  the  whole  of  life  is  before  me,  that  there 
is  a  whole  other  plane  to  explore.  But  I've  got  to 
jump  down  to  that,  haven't  I,  to  dive?  ' 

Transcendent  egoism  was  there,  but  still  shallow, 
still  sunny  and  enchanting. 

"  Yes,  dive  probably,"  said  Madge.  "  But  I  don't 
know  whether  you  will  find  it  fascinating.  As  I  said, 
you  haven't  yet  decided  whether  your  string  is  to  be 
black  or  white.  Do  you  understand?  Are  you  going 
to  be  good,  or  are  you  going  to  be  bad?  ' 

Lucia  frowned  a  little ;  there  was  something  brutally 
direct  about  this,  which  was  not  much  to  her  taste. 


THE    CLIMBER  267 

"  Yes,  it  puzzles  you  a  little  because  it  is  so  sim- 
ple," went  on  Madge;  "  and  no  doubt  such  a  con- 
sideration seems  to  you  a  little  middle-class,  a  little 
bourgeois." 

"  I  always  say  my  prayers,"  said  Lucia,  "  however 
late  I  am.  At  least  almost." 

"  Ah,  that's  bad!  "  said  Madge  quickly.  "  If  you 
pray,  you  should  pray  when  you  have  got  something  to 
pray  about." 

"  Oh,  but  I  always  have,"  said  Lucia.  "  I  prayed 
tremendously  that  the  Brayton  week  might  be  fine,  and 
it  was  lovely." 

Madge  could  not  help  laughing.  Lucia  spoke  with 
such  sincerity.  But  she  became  grave  again. 

"  Oh,  you  poor  child!  "  she  said.  "  You  will  be 
awake  some  day,  and  then — then  you  will  either  pray 
prayers  that  scald  you,  and  wring  the  heart  out  of  you, 
or  you  will  not  pray  at  all.  It  is  one  thing  to  struggle 
to  get  what  you  want;  it  is  quite  another  to  struggle 
not  to  take  what  you  want.  Many  people  don't  strug- 
gle then,  they  take  it." 

Lucia  put  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  like  some  in- 
quiring bird. 

"  Oh,  do  you  mean  horrid  things,"  she  said  "  like 
wanting  somebody  else's  husband?  I  think  that  is  so 
disgusting. ' ' 

Lady  Heron  got  up. 

"  I  will  preach  no  more,"  she  said.  "  Dear  Lucia, 
I  hope  you  will  never  understand  a  word  I  have  said. ' ' 

"  Oh,  but  I  think  it's  fascinating,"  said  she.  "  But 
I  think  you  are  wrong  about  me." 

She  got  up  also,  still  incapable  of  honesty. 

"  You  quite  leave  out  the  fact  that  I  adore  Edgar," 


268  THE   CLIMBER 

she  said.    "  I  think  you  believe  I  am  heartless.    I 
that  it?  " 

11  Tinkle,  tinkle!  "  said  Madge. 

Lucia  felt  a  little  displeased. 

"  Well  then,  I  hope  I  shall  always  tinkle,  tinkle, 
she  said.    "  It  is  gay,  anyhow." 


CHAPTER 

T  T  was  a  warm,  clear  evening  in  late  September,  but 
-••  autumn  was  no  less  evident  in  the  quality  of  colour 
in  the  blue  dome  of  the  sky  than  in  the  spots  and 
streaks  of  orange  that  had  begun  to  flame  among  the 
green  of  the  beech-trees  and  bracken  that  lay  above 
and  beyond  the  lake  at  Brayton.  The  paleness  and 
coolness  of  that  blue  was  reflected  there;  it  was  no 
midsummer  sky  that  the  lake  mirrored,  but  the  clear- 
ness of  an  evening  which,  though  warm,  might  yet 
prove  to  be  frosty  before  morning,  and  blacken  the  gay 
dahlia  heads,  a  little  over-bonneted,  a  little  over-coif- 
fured,  that  stood  in  stiff  rows  behind  the  audacious 
scarlet  of  the  salvias  in  the  formal  garden-beds  just 
outside  the  roofed  terrace  of  the  house.  No  sultriness 
of  day-lit  hours  stained  the  heavens ;  a  few  little  crim- 
son wisps  of  cloud  floated  there,  and  were  reflected  be- 
low as  if  the  angel  of  sunset  had  moulted  a  score  of 
downy  feathers  from  his  wings  before  plunging  west- 
ward into  the  jubilance  of  the  burning  horizon.  There 
some  ribbons  and  patches  of  more  substantial  cloud  of 
soberer  hue  floated  like  little  windless  tropic  islands 
on  a  sea  of  palest  green ;  below  them,  and  just  above  the 
pearl-coloured,  half  opaque  mists  that  hung  over  the 
valley  where  Brixham  lay,  a  streak  of  intense  orange 
burned  along  the  hills. 

The  note  of  autumn,  indeed,  vibrated  everywhere. 
A  torrid  August  had  scorched  the  lawn  to  a  faded  yel- 

269 


270  THE   CLIMBER 

low,  and  already  a  fortnight  ago  the  big,  loose-leaved 
Virginia  creeper  on  the  house  had  burst  into  flame,  and 
now  only  grey  and  brown  ash  remained  to  mark  where 
that  triumphant  conflagration  had  flared.  The  big 
chestnut  by  the  lake  had  yellowed,  and  in  the  cool  of 
the  sunset  hour  the  large  five-fingered  leaves  were  de- 
taching themselves,  and  falling  without  turn  or  twist  in 
the  still  air  on  to  the  lawn  beneath.  Basket  chairs, 
some  four  or  five  in  number,  were  placed  in  the  trees' 
ample  shade,  and  the  seats  of  gaudy  chintz  were 
speckled  with  the  fallen  foliage.  From  the  surface  of 
the  lake  the  lilies,  leaf  and  flower  alike,  had  withered 
and  vanished,  and  it  spread  out  its  cool,  reflecting  plain 
unencumbered  to  the  sky.  All  summer  it  had  been 
clothed  in  green  and  ivory  and  gold ;  now,  by  some  way- 
ward perversion  of  things,  it  unrobed  itself  at  the  ap- 
proach of  frost.  The  birds  were  already  abed;  oc- 
casionally a  thrush  fluted  a  little  hoarsely  from  the 
bushes,  but  the  lawn  was  empty  of  its  bright-eyed  scur- 
riers;  they  dined  early  so  as  not  to  risk  the  chance  of 
finding  a  frozen  table  after  sunset. 

But  inside  the  terrace  there  was  no  hint  of  the  au- 
tumnal ;  it  flared  with  colour,  not  the  protesting  vivid- 
ness of  dying  leaves  that  fruitlessly  asserted  their  vi- 
tality, but  with  the  crimson  of  the  banner  of  summer. 
The  great  Syrian  curtains  and  hangings  which  had 
been  hung  there  for  the  Brayton  week  in  July  had  been 
brought  out  again;  it  was  arranged  once  more  as  a 
huge  half  out-of-door  sitting-room  with  tables  and  Per- 
sian rugs  and  groups  of  chairs.  And  here,  looking  out 
between  the  brick-columns  that  supported  it,  Edgar 
was  sitting  alone,  regarding  the  sunset  with  uncon- 
scious appreciation,  but  with  only  half  his  conscious  at- 


THE   CLIMBEK  271 

tention.  He  looked  rather  colourless,  a  little  bleached 
instead  of  sunburnt  by  the  summer,  and  in  his  eyes  one 
might  say  there  was  already  something  akin  to  autumn. 
But  though  expectancy  was  still  there,  the  balance 
trembled ;  spring  still  hoped,  but  long  waiting  had  tired 
it  a  little. 

Yet  it  had  not  tired  it  so  much  that  he  failed  to  catch 
the  earliest  news  of  a  footfall  in  the  drawing-room  be- 
hind, when  to  a  less  listening  sense  the  sound  would 
still  have  been  inaudible.  Something  of  love-quickness 
still  sharpened  his  senses,  and  he  knew  the  footfall. 
Then  came  the  whisper  of  a  skirt,  and  then  came 
Lucia. 

She  held  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  which  she  was 
still  reading,  and  the  habitual  radiance  of  her  face  was 
a  little  dimmed.  It  was  almost  impossible  for  her  to 
look  annoyed,  so  serenely  were  her  flesh  and  skin  laid 
over  her  bones,  so  deliciously  was  set  a  little  dimple 
in  each  cheek,  so  used  to  smiles  were  the  fine  curves 
of  her  mouth,  but  a  shade  of  perplexity,  a  hint  of  com- 
plaint, was  in  her  face.  Then,  raising  her  eyes,  she  saw 
her  husband. 

"  Ah,  dear  Edgar,"  she  said,  "  but  I  was  looking 
for  you.  It  is  rather  a  nuisance;  I  am  in  a  bit  of  a 
hole.  I  have  just  heard  from  Aunt  Cathie. ' ' 

"  She  is  coming  to  pay  us  a  visit,  I  hope,"  said 
Edgar.  "  I  remember  I  begged  you  to  write  from 
Scotland,  asking  her  to  propose  herself  any  time  after 
we  got  back." 

"  I  know.  I  did  so.  And  she  has  proposed  herself 
for  next  week.  It  really  is  rather  awkward ;  the  whole 
world  will  be  here.  Had  I  not  better  telegraph  and 
put  her  off?  " 


272  THE   CLIMBER 

"  But  on  what  pretext?  "  asked  Edgar.  "  And  for 
what  reason?  ' 

Lucia  laughed.  She  wanted  to  get  her  way  about 
this,  and  she  always  tried  good-natured  means  first.  It 
was  such  a  pity  to  be  cross  and  tiresome  unless  it  was 
necessary. 

"  I  see  the  distinction/'  she  said.  "  But  can't  we 
find  a  pretext  that  would  also  be  a  reason?  The  house 
will  be  very  full ;  you  will  be  shooting  all  day  with  the 
men,  and  I  shall  have  my  hands  full  with  the  women. 
I  shall  simply  not  be  able  to  look  after  her  at  all.  She 
will  know  none  of  the  others ;  she  will  feel  so  out  of  it. 
Oh,  I  know  it  is  my  fault  for  not  remembering  the  party 
and  asking  her  to  come  any  time  during  September 
after  we  got  back.  It  is  quite  my  fault ;  I  will  say  so !  " 

A  certain  look  came  into  Edgar's  face  that  Lucia  had 
long  learned  to  dislike,  and  in  a  manner  to  fear.  It  in- 
cluded a  little  compression  of  his  mouth,  a  slight  rais- 
ing of  his  eyebrows.  It  implied  displeasure,  and  it 
implied  the  sort  of  firmness  which  she  was  accustomed 
to  think  of  as  obstinacy. 

"  That,  no  doubt,  is  an  admirable  pretext,"  he  said, 
' '  and  I  am  sure  you  would  put  it  delightfully.  But  it 
is  not  your  reason." 

Lucia  glanced  at  the  letter  again. 

"  Ah,  then  here  is  a  reason,"  she  said.  "  Poor  Aunt 
Elizabeth  is  not  well,  and  Aunt  Cathie  says  she  is  a 
little  anxious  about  her — at  least,  no,  she  doesn't  say 
it,  but  I  feel  sure  she  is.  If  we  put  it  off,  they  can 
come  together.  That  would  be  much  better." 

"  Pretext  again,  my  dear,"  said  he,  a  shade 
pedantically. 

Lucia  was  used  to  resenting  the  shadows  of  implied 


THE    CLIMBEE  273 

rebukes  which  he  occasionally  cast  across  her  path. 
The  shadow  was  there  now.  But  she  still  remained 
outwardly  genial. 

"  Then  tell  me  the  reason,  since  you  are  so  quick  at 
these  distinctions,"  she  observed. 

The  pedant,  the  schoolmaster,  became  a  little  more 
marked  in  Edgar's  face. 

' '  I  am  not  sure  that  you  will  like  it, ' '  he  said, ' '  when 
stated.  You  will  see  it  is  not  worthy  of  you." 

"  Ah,  let  us  hear  it,"  she  remarked.  "  We  can  dis- 
cuss it  afterwards,  if  necessary." 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  a  little  ashamed  of  your  Aunt 
Cathie.  The  truth  is  that  you  do  not  want  her  to  be 
in  the  house  with  your  other  friends.  My  dear  Lucia, 
she  is  a  lady,  and  that  is  all  that  can  be  asked  of  a 
woman. ' ' 

"  Of  course  she  is  a  lady,"  said  Lucia  quickly,  for- 
getting for  the  moment  to  disclaim  this  as  being  her 
reason,  "  but  she  is  a  very  odd  one." 

"  So  that  was  your  reason,"  said  he. 

Lucia  was  quite  well  aware  that  she  had  come  out 
second  best  over  this,  but  she  still  kept  her  annoyance 
to  herself.  Also  it  was  no  use  trying  to  explain  that 
away ;  she  had  made  a  slip,  and  he  had  put  his  finger 
on  it. 

"  Well,  for  all  these  reasons  and  pretexts  I  think  it 
would  be  much  wiser  to  put  Aunt  Cathie  off  till  after 
next  week,"  she  said.  "  I  may  also  remind  you  that 
the  burden  of  entertaining  her  will  fall  on  me  and  not 
on  you." 

Edgar  laughed. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said.  "  Aunt  Cathie  will  entertain 
herself  very  well.  And  I  have  a  very  sound  reason 


274  THE   CLIMBER 

for  not  putting  her  off :  it  is  that  I  know  she  will  love 
seeing  you  as  the  hostess  of  a  big  party.  It  will  give 
her  the  intensest  pleasure,  and  perhaps  she  has  not 
many  pleasures.  She  adores  you;  she  will  love  to  see 
you  shining." 

Lucia  did  not  answer  at  once;  but,  looking  out  over 
the  garden,  the  mists  above  Brixham  caught  her  eye 
for  a  moment,  and  her  mind  went  back  over  those  very 
lean  years  that  she  had  spent  there.  It  seemed  almost 
incredible  that  it  was  she  who  had  been  caged  there, 
yet  she  felt  that  the  individuality  which  had  looked  out 
so  savagely  on  to  the  narrow  limits  of  her  world  there 
was  the  same  exactly  as  that  which  looked  out  so 
eagerly  now  over  its  widened  horizon.  It  had  not 
changed  at  all;  it  still  "  wanted  "  with  the  same  lust 
of  living.  After  all,  too,  she  owed  Aunt  Cathie  some- 
thing, and  if,  as  Edgar  said,  it  was  true  that  the  old 
dear  would  love  to  see  her  shining,  as  he  put  it,  it  was 
rather  darling  of  her.  It  would  be  an  inexhaustible 
subject  of  conversation,  too,  with  her  for  the  winter, 
a  loaded  granary.  Also,  she  would  have  no  end  of  a 
tussle  with  her  husband  if  she  was  to  get  her  way,  and 
even  with  a  tussle  she  did  not  feel  sure  that  she  would 
secure  it.  So,  with  the  admirable  common  sense  that 
she  found  reaped  so  sure  a  reward  in  the  affairs  of  life, 
she  yielded,  not  ungraciously,  but  with  the  most  dis- 
arming charm.  She  turned  on  him  with  a  smile. 

"  So,  if  it  please  my  lord,"  she  said,  "  I  will  send  a 
telegram,  shall  I,  to  Aunt  Cathie,  with  the  warmest 
welcome  for  next  week?  Will  that  please  you?  v 

Suddenly  she  paused. 

11  Oh,  Edgar,"  she  said,  "  but  we  both  forgot.  We 
are  giving  *  Salome  '  on  the  Thursday.  Tell  me,  can 


THE   CLIMBER  275 

you  imagine  Aunt  Cathie  looking  at i  Salome  '  f  If  you 
can,  I  make  my  compliments  to  your  imagination.  It 
is  brilliant." 

Edgar  had  not  thought  of  that. 

"  But  it's  in  German,"  he  said,  rather  feebly.  "  She 
probably  won't  understand  it." 

"  John  the  Baptist's  head  isn't  in  German,"  re- 
marked Lucia. 

* '  It  can 't  be  helped, ' '  he  said,  after  a  pause.  ' '  Most 
likely  she  will  not  care  to  come,  when  you  tell  her. ' ' 

* '  Ah,  when  I  tell  her !  ' '  said  Lucia  softly  to  herself. 

Edgar  did  not  hear  this:  Lucia  had  not  meant  him 
to.  She  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  who  speaks  asides 
in  order  to  have  them  heard.  When  she  wanted  to  be 
heard,  she  spoke  out  loud. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not  altogether  pleased  myself  that 
we  are  going  to  give  it,"  he  said,  getting  up.  "  There 
was  that  French  play,  too,  which  we  gave  at  the  end 
of  the  week  in  July,  that  I  think  we  had  better  have 
done  without.  We  don't  want  it  characteristic  of  the 
house  that  you  see  here  plays  which  the  censor  would 
not  sanction  for  the  London  stage." 

"  We  couldn't  help  ourselves  about  '  La  Rouille,'  " 
said  Lucia.  "  The  Princess  asked  us  to  have  it." 

Lucia  had  sat  down  at  a  writing  table,  and  taken 
from  the  stationery  desk  a  case  of  telegraph  forms,  to 
send  one  to  Aunt  Cathie.  Edgar,  however,  as  his  habit 
was  when  a  little  agitated,  was  pacing  up  and  down 
between  two  columns  of  the  terrace,  four  quick  steps 
one  way,  a  quick  turn,  and  four  quick  steps  in  the 
opposite  direction.  The  action  in  itself  always  slightly 
annoyed  Lucia;  she  disliked  it  also  for  a  further  rea- 
son— namely,  that  it  implied  that  Edgar  was  preparing 


276  THE    CLIMBER 

to  discuss  something  that  troubled  him.  She  had  be- 
gun to  hate  the  word  discussion.  She  immediately 
heard  it. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  discussion  with  you, 
Lucia"  he  said,  "  about  several  questions  which  arise 
from  and  are  connected  with  what  we  have  just  been 
saying.  To  begin  with,  you  say  we  could  not  help  our- 
selves about  '  La  Bouille  '  because  the  Princess  Olga 
asked  us  to  have  it.  There  I  part  company  with  you. 
I  disagree  altogether.  In  the  ordering  of  our  house, 
in  the  entertainments  we  give,  in  the  guests  we  in- 
vite, I  hold  that  we  should  consult  nobody  but  our- 
selves and  our  own  tastes." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  in  his  "  quarter-decking," 
as  Lucia  called  it,  and  looked  at  her.  She  met  his 
glance  quite  calmly  and  spoke  quite  politely. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said,  "  but  if  you  want  to  discuss 
those  affairs  with  me  at  any  length,  I  will  interrupt  you 
at  once,  instead  of  later,  to  ask  you  if  this  telegram 
will  do : 

"  '  Edgar  and  I  charmed  to  see  you  on  Tuesday. 
Pray  stop  a  full  week.  Delighted  you  can  come. '  ' ' 

Edgar  rang  a  bell. 

"  Yes,  excellent,"  he  said;  and  when  the  servant  had 
taken  it :  * '  I  should  like  to  discuss  things  with  you  at 
some  length,  as  you  say." 

Lucia  had  felt  for  many  weeks  now  that  something 
of  this  sort  was  simmering  in  her  husband's  mind. 
Times  innumerable  she  had  felt  by  that  sixth  sense  of 
instinct,  which  is  surer  than  all  the  other  senses  pnt 
together,  that  their  life  was  not  coming  up  to  his  ex- 


THE   CLIMBER  277 

pectations.  Brilliant  as  it  all  was,  it  was  another  style 
of  brilliance  than  that  which  she  had  planned  for  him. 
That  idea  of  hers  which  had  so  appealed  to  him,  and 
been  so  identical  with  his  own  that  they  should  be  at 
Bray  ton  a  great  deal,  entertain  largely  but  locally, 
and  throw  culture  broadcast  over  Brixham,  as  a  ripe 
mushroom  scatters  spores,  had,  to  say  the  truth,  not 
been  realized  at  present;  nor,  indeed,  in  Lucia's  plans 
for  the  autumn  and  winter  did  it  seem  likely  to  be 
realized.  During  the  Brayton  week,  it  is  true,  she  had 
asked — so  she  said  at  the  time — every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  Brixham,  including  mayor,  aldermen,  and 
even  the  coroner,  to  an  immense  garden  party,  and  had 
even  entertained  a  large  number  to  dinner  and  a 
French  farce,  but  the  experiment  had  not  been  a  suc- 
cess. Brixham,  it  was  evident  to  her,  did  not  mix  at 
all  with  the  other  guests  in  her  house ;  and  though  she 
introduced  all  Brixham  whose  names  she  knew  to  all 
London,  they  had  nothing  whatever  to  say  to  each 
other,  and  soon  all  Brixham  congregated  together 
among  itself  again,  like  some  large  lump  of  food  that 
would  not  be  assimilated.  Even  more  disastrous  was 
the  French  play,  because  the  Dean's  wife,  who  knew 
French,  got  up  in  the  middle,  and  signalled  to  her 
daughters  and  her  husband  to  follow  her.  But  he,  most 
unfortunately,  was  asleep,  and  she  hissed  at  him  in 
awful  tones,  "  Come  away,  Henry;  it  is  not  right  for 
us  to  stop, ' '  until  she  made  him,  like  Beautiful  Evelyn 
Hope '  *  awake  and  remember  and  understand. ' '  It  had 
been  screamingly  funny,  but  at  the  same  time  it  had  its 
annoying  side.  Lucia  did  not  want  to  risk  such  a  thing 
occurring  again. 

The  sequel  had  annoyed  her  as  well,  though,  like  the 


278  THE   CLIMBER 

incident,  it  was  broad  farce.  Brixham,  it  appeared., 
had  had  a  battle  royal  over  the  affair,  having,  as  usual, 
nothing  whatever  to  talk  about,  and  the  faction  of  the 
Dean's  wife  alluded  to  Lucia  as  "  that  Lady  Brayton," 
while  her  supporters,  of  whom  there  were  many,  chiefly 
said  that  Mrs.  Gopsall  did  not  understand  French. 
Aunt  Cathie 's  contribution  to  the  skirmish  had  been  to 
attempt  to  get  an  English  translation  of  the  play,  so 
that  she  could  judge  for  herself.  This,  fortunately, 
was  not  to  be  had.  All  that  was  but  a  teacup  storm; 
it  was,  however,  symptomatic  of  what  Lucia  knew 
would  be  the  nature  of  this  discussion  with  her  husband. 
It  was  only  gradually  that  Edgar  had  seen  how  utterly 
divergent  his  projected  line  was  from  that  of  his  wife, 
for  there  was  much  that  was  common  to  both.  But  they 
led  not  so  distantly  to  regions  very  far  apart. 

11  We  are  alone,"  said  Lucia  quietly.  "  We  can  dis- 
cuss these  points.  But  I  should  be  grateful,  Edgar, 
if  you  would  sit  down.  Your  incessant  turning  rather 
confuses  me." 

Lucia  did  not  say  that  wantonly ;  she  was  aware  that 
she  would  probably  need  to  have  all  her  wits  about 
her.  The  discussion,  she  foresaw,  would  be  rather 
vital.  She  meant  also  that  it  should  be. 

He  sat  down,  sideways  to  her,  and  she  spoke. 

"  You  said  that  you  do  not  want  it  to  be  thought 
characteristic  of  this  house  that  we  give  here  plays 
that  the  censor  would  not  allow  on  the  London  stage, ' ' 
she  said.  "  Now,  as  we  both  of  us  know,  it  is  I  who 
really  am  responsible  for  the  quality  of  our  entertain- 
ments, and  when  you  say  a  thing  like  that,  you  make 
a  direct  reflection  on  me.  Very  well,  I  am  here  to  dis- 
cuss this  with  you.  Will  you  please  state  your  case!  ' 


THE   CLIMBER  279 

He  looked  up  at  her,  startled. 

"  Ah,  Lucia,  I  don't  mean  that,"  he  said.  "  How 
can  you  so  misunderstand  me?  " 

Lucia  had  swiftly  considered  her  position,  and  had 
spoken  advisedly.  She  thought,  rightly  or  wrongly, 
that  the  time  had  come  for  Edgar  to  say  all  that  had 
been  in  his  mind  for  so  many  weeks.  There  had  been 
an  uneasy  atmosphere  abroad  for  some  time,  and  she 
wished  for  a  clearing  of  the  air,  whether  or  no  a  thun- 
derstorm was  necessary  for  it.  It  was  advisedly  that 
she  spoke  again. 

"  I  think  you  will  see  that  you  do  mean  that  when 
you  come  to  express  yourself,"  she  said.  "  You  don't 
like  the  tone  of  our  entertainments,  for  which  I  am 
certainly  responsible,  and  I  don't  think  that  you  en- 
tirely like  the  tone  of  my  friends.  Is  that  not  so 
also?  "  . 

'  *  Many  of  them  I  like  immensely, ' '  he  said. 

"  Let  us  revise  the  visiting  list,  then,"  she  said. 
"  My  dear,  do  come  to  the  point  at  once,  instead  of 
beating  about  the  bush.  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  Lady  Heron,"  he  said. 

* '  So  I  supposed.  Now,  as  you  know,  I  have  not  been 
very  long  in  London,  but  I  see  her  received  everywhere ; 
and,  as  I  am  particularly  fond  of  her,  I  see  no  reason 
why  I  should  not  be  intimate  with  her. ' ' 

"  People  talk  about  her,"  said  Edgar.  "  Abom- 
inable things  are  said  about  her." 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  difference  between  us,"  said 
Lucia.  "  You  listen  to  gossip,  I  don't.  But  since  you 
have  done  so,  please  tell  me  what  things  are  said  about 
her.  I  mean,  by  the  way,  to  tell  her  all  you  tell  me. 
She  is  my  friend ;  I  think  she  ought  to  know. ' ' 


280  THE   CLIMBER 

That  sounded  gloriously  unworldly,  and  it  had  the 
effect  of  making  Edgar's  heart  go  out  to  his  wife  in  a 
sudden  rush  of  essential  admiration.  But  it  was  even 
more  gloriously  worldly;  it  was  a  piece  of  supreme 
wisdom.  For  the  moment  she  completely  disarmed 
him. 

"  Ah,  Lucia,  you  are  such  a  child,"  he  said.  "  You 
are  so  unspotted ;  it  was  loyalty  itself  that  spoke  there. 
But  you  can't  go  through  this  rough  and  tumble  of  a 
world  on  those  lines.  People  are  brutes ;  they  say  that 
to  touch  pitch  is  to  be  defiled.  It  isn't  so,  of  course, 
with  you " 

But  she  interrupted  him  again. 

"  Oh,  let  us  be  frank,"  she  said.  "  The  pitch — you 
allude  to  Madge  in  that  way.  What  do  you  mean? 
Let  us  have  it  out.  I  wish  to  tell  Madge  what  people 
say  about  her.  Of  course,  I  shall  not  say  who  told 
me." 

He  was  silent :  simply  he  could  not  tell  her. 

' '  Cannot  you  take  my  word  for  it, ' '  he  said,  ' '  that 
it  would  be  wiser  of  you  not  to  see  quite  so  much  of 
Lady  Heron?  It  is  true  she  has  a  great  position,  but 
people,  nice  people " 

Lucia  rose  in  wrath.  How  far  it  was  genuine  con- 
cerned herself  only,  but  certainly  some  of  it  was. 

"  It  comes  to  this,  then,"  she  said,  "  that  you  make 
vile  insinuations,  the  nature  of  which  I  do  not  choose 
to  guess,  against  my  best  friend,  and  then  refuse  to 
tell  me  what  they  are.  I  don't  ask  you  again;  the  na- 
ture of  the  statement  itself,  whatever  it  is,  doesn't  in- 
terest me  in  the  least.  Luckily,  since  you  do  not  tell 
me  what  it  is  all  about,  I  can  judge  of  the  quality  of 
what  you  have  heard.  That  sort  of  stuff  is  dropped 


THE   CLIMBER  281 

from  the  garret  into  the  gutter.  It  only  disgraces  those 
who  drop  it  and  defiles  those  who  sit  in  the  gutter.  I 
do  not,  nor  does  she." 

Lucia  was  conscious  that  her  tongue  was  running 
away  with  her,  and  she  stopped  abruptly.  Yet  even  as 
she  stopped,  hearing  her  own  words  in  her  head,  she 
endorsed  them.  With  all  her  huge  faults,  she  at  any 
rate  lacked  the  scratching  nails  and  forked  tongue  of 
the  mischief-maker.  She  had  the  serene  indulgence  to- 
wards the  doings  of  others  which,  though  it  may  only 
spring  from  indifference  to  morals,  is  yet  a  factor  in 
the  world  that  makes  for  peace  and  pleasantness.  But 
though  she  thoroughly  approved  her  own  sentiments, 
she  realized  that  she  had  said  enough,  if  not  more  than 
enough,  and  with  the  almost  superhuman  control  that 
she  had  over  herself  she  threw  her  anger  from  her. 

She  had  risen,  but  now  sat  down  again,  and  as  if  her 
passion  had  heated  her,  she  cast  back  the  little  cape 
that  she  had  on  her  shoulders,  and  unpinned  her  hat. 
Her  mood  changed  altogether.  She  leaned  forward 
toward  him,  her  chin  a  little  raised,  almost  suppliant. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  know  how  all  you 
have  said  to  me  is  prompted  by  the  best,  the  very  best, 
motives,  but  it  is  such  a  mistake.  Let  us  go  to  the 
root  of  it  all.  Has  Madge  had  lovers  not  her  husband? 
I  daresay.  But  what  then?  It  doesn't  concern  either 
you  or  me.  It  is  her  own  business.  Supposing  some- 
body came  to  me  to-morrow  and  told  me  you  were — 
anything,  thief,  adulterer — do  you  suppose  I  should 
listen?  Don't  you  understand?  What  concerns  me 
about  you  is  what  I  know  of  you — what  you  are  to  me, 
not  what  other  people  tell  me  about  you.  I  don 't  care 
whether  your  informants  are  correct  or  not  in  what 


282  THE    CLIMBER 

they  tell  you.  It  isn't  my  affair.  That  is  all,  I  think. 
Let  us  dismiss  the  matter  entirely.  I  will  forget  it." 

But  these  few  sentences  of  Lucia 's,  spoken  so  quietly 
after  her  anger  had  left  her,  seemed  to  come  to  Edgar 
in  fiery  stabs.  For  the  moment  he  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  Lucia  had  said  these  things,  so  astonishing 
and  shocking  were  they.  He  got  up  and  began  his 
quarter-decking  again,  and  this  time  Lucia  did  not  ap- 
pear to  notice.  There  was  drama  in  the  air  that  de- 
manded her  whole  attention. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  cannot  dismiss  the  matter,  as  you 
suggest,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  I  have  misunderstood 
you,  but  what  I  gather  you  mean  is  that  the  character 
and  morals  of  your  friends  are  a  matter  of  indifference 
to  you.  Do  you  mean  that!  ' 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  face  gone  suddenly  pale  and 
haggard.  A  few  minutes  ago  only  he  had  with  all  sin- 
cerity called  Lucia  a  child,  a  thing  unspotted,  but  was 
it  a  child  who  had  said  this? 

He  came  a  step  nearer  and  paused,  clenching  his 
hands  together. 

"  Quick,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  mean?  You  have 
said  that  the  whole  moral  code — that  is  what  it  comes 
to — is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  you. ' ' 

Lucia  saw  now  where  they  stood.  The  whole  thing 
was  ghastly  in  its  simplicity.  Her  words  had  been  per- 
fectly sincere,  perfectly  natural,  and  they  had  come  to 
her  husband  in  the  light  of  some  horrible  revelation, 
a  thing  that  she  saw  at  once  might  easily  and  swiftly 
spoil  their  lives  if  it  was  allowed  lodgment  in  his  mind. 
She  had  to  dispose  of  it  somehow;  she  had,  with  all 
the  force  of  her  quick  and  ingenious  brain,  to  twist  her 
words  from  the  sense  in  which  she  had  meant  them 


THE    CLIMBER  283 

and  the  sense  in  which  he  had  understood  them,  and 
give  them  some  fresh  turn  of  meaning.  She  stood  up 
also. 

' '  Really,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  very  good-natured 
to  discuss  things  with  you  at  all, ' '  she  said, i  l  for  either, 
my  dear  Edgar,  you  wilfully  distort  my  meaning,  which 
I  should  be  sorry  to  suppose  was  the  case,  or  else  either 
you  or  I  must  be  very  stupid :  I  in  having  stated  things 
very  badly,  or  you  in  not  being  able  to  understand  what 
appears  to  me  to  be  a  very  simple  affair." 

She  paused  a  moment,  but  only  for  a  moment,  and  it 
was  really  rather  a  difficult  task  that  lay  before  her, 
but  there  was  clearly  no  time  to  think  things  over. 

* '  You  seem  to  think, ' '  she  said,  *  *  that  I  have  noth- 
ing better  to  do  than  to  listen  to  you  making  vile  in- 
sinuations about  my  friends  and  saying  dreadful  things 
about  me.  Yes,  I  must  go  back  to  that;  for  though  I 
said  I  would  dismiss  it,  you  refused  to  do  so.  It  seems 
that  it  is  not  enough  for  you  to  repeat  the  gossip  of 
the  gutter  to  me  about  Madge,  but  you  say  that  you 
understand  that  the  whole  moral  code  is  a  thing  of 
indifference  to  me.  You  say  I  have  said  so  myself. 
That,  Edgar,  is  not  true.  I  said  that  the  stories  which 
people  choose  to  circulate  about  my  friends  do  not  con- 
cern me  at  all." 

She  saw  her  way  clearly  now. 

"  Please  attend  carefully.  Even  the  truth  or  the 
falsity  of  such  idle  tales  does  not  concern  me  at  all;  I 
will  not  listen  to  a  word  of  them.  If  someone  told  me 
hideous  tales  about  you,  would  it  not  be  vile  in  me  to 
listen  to  them1?  Must  not  my  very  trust  in  you  prevent 
my  even  considering  whether  such  things  are  true  or 
not?  " 


284  THE   CLIMBER 

Lucia  began  to  tremble ;  like  all  profound  actors  she 
was  genuinely  affected  by  what  she  was  saying.  He 
would  have  interrupted  her,  but  she  held  up  her  hand 
to  stop  him. 

"  Please  listen,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know,  Edgar 
— indeed,  I  am  beginning  to  be  afraid  that  I  do  not 
know  what  you  mean  by  love ;  but  to  my  mind  absolute 
trurt  is  an  integral  part  of  it.  And  if  one  trusts  a 
person,  it  seems  to  me  quite  impossible  to  listen  to 
anything  against  him.  You  appear  to  think  otherwise. 
In  that  case  I  am  afraid  I  differ  from  you  radically  and 
completely.  I  hope  I  shall  always  differ  from  you. 
But  "  —here  Lucia's  mouth  quivered  so  that  she  could 
hardly  form  the  words — "  but  I  do  not  know  what  I 
have  done  that  you  should  think  these  things  of  me.  It 
is  shameful  of  you." 

Edgar  felt  his  brain  swim.  Two  minutes  ago  Lucia 
had  been  saying  things  that  filled  him  with  horror,  that 
shocked  and  astounded  him,  and  yet  now  she  was  all 
but  repeating  her  own  words,  and  those  words  had  be- 
come a  perfect  gospel  of  sublime  and  exalted  thought. 
He  had  to  choose :  to  stick  to  his  first  interpretation  of 
them,  or  accept  the  perfectly  sound  reading  of  them 
which  Lucia,  with  tears  in  her  voice  and  mouth  quiver- 
ing with  outraged  feeling,  now  offered  him.  Such  a 
choice  was  foregone. 

'*  Ah,  Lucia,  it  was  shameful  of  me,"  he  cried — 
"  shameful.  I  can't  even  ask  your  forgiveness;  but  if 
only  you  would  give  it  me. ' ' 

She  seemed  not  to  be  able  to  speak  for  a  moment, 
and  her  hand  gripped  the  back  of  the  chair  by  which 
she  stood  with  trembling  tension.  Then  slowly  a  smile, 
like  the  moon  looking  out  from  the  flying  wreaths  of 


THE   CLIMBER  285 

storm-cloud,  shone  through  the  quivering  of  her  lips, 
serene  and  unshaken  by  the  turmoil  that  had  gone  on 
so  far  below  it. 

' '  Oh,  my  dear, ' '  she  said,  and  held  out  both  hands 
to  him. 

She  said  no  other  word  at  all,  and  when  he  would 
have  spoken,  she  laid  her  cool  fingers  on  his  mouth. 
And  in  that  heavenly  silence,  he,  poor  fool!  thought 
only  how  wonderful,  how  beyond  compare  with  all 
other  women  she  was.  That  was  very  near  the  truth, 
but  it  was  not  near  the  particular  truth  that  he  was 
thinking  about. 

Then,  after  a  moment  or  two,  Lucia  spoke  again. 

"  Do  you  know,  darling,"  she  said,  "  I  differ  from 
you  about  the  question  of  doing  *  Salome  '  here,  and  if 
you  are  not  busy,  I  should  like  to  discuss  it  with  you. 
But  let  us  walk  about:  let  us  go  down  to  the  end  of 
the  garden  and  back;  it  gets  a  little  chilly  sitting 
down." 

It  was  daring,  and  she  knew  it,  to  bring  the  conver- 
sation back  at  once  to  the  subject  on  which  they  had 
so  radically  disagreed  so  little  a  while  before.  But 
she  did  it  with  intention;  it  was  an  admirable  way  of 
showing  him  how  utterly  she  had  expunged  all  that 
had  passed  from  her  mind  to  discuss  at  once  a  subject 
which  had  been  the  cause  of  bitter  words. 

He  winced  at  her  suggestion. 

"  Ah,  no,  no!  "  he  said.    "  I  don't  think  I  can." 

Here  was  more  opportunity. 

"  Oh,  but  really  we  had  better,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
sure  we  shall  not  disagree  if  we  only  talk  about  it.  Be- 
cause my  view  is  this,  Edgar.  It  is  such  a  mistake 
to  think,  to  demand  that  works  of  art  should  conform 


286  THE   CLIMBER 

to  any  moral  code.  All  art,  if  it  is  art,  is  indifferent  to 
morals." 

That  was  intentional,  too;  she  purposely  used  the 
words  that  had  stung,  to  show  there  was  no  sting  in 
them. 

"  And  the  odd  thing  about  us,"  she  said,  "  is  that 
we  don't  demand  morals  from  the  classical  plays,  but 
only  from  modern  ones.  That  is  what  the  French  mean 
by  our  English  hypocrisy,  I  think,  and  they  are  quite 
right.  What  can  be  more  intensely  immoral  than 
'  Othello  '?  Supposing  you  called  Othello  Mr.  Jones, 
and  Desdemona  Mrs.  Jones,  and  lago  the  Honourable 
Desmond  O'Brien,  and  laid  the  scene  in  Brixham,  there 
is  no  question  whatever  that  the  censor  would  refuse 
to  license  the  play,  especially  if  it  was  written  not  in 
blank  verse  but  in  prose.  Of  course  we  are  quite  right 
in  our  admiration  for  the  play  '  Othello,'  but  where  we 
are  quite  wrong  is  in  making  a  distinction  between 
what  is  modern  and  what  is  ancient  and  classical.  We 
are  not  shocked  with  the  great  Catherine  of  Russia, 
but  if  the  present  Empress  behaved  like  that  we  prob- 
ably should  be.  Yes,  darling,  I  am  coming  to  the  point. 
The  fact  that  we  accept  Catherine  of  Russia — who  is 
real  life  by  the  way — and  Othello  shows  that  we  do  not 
really  demand  morals  from  art,  and  we  are  squeamish 
only  when  the  characters  talk  our  own  language,  and 
wear  the  clothes  of  the  day.  '  La  Rouille,'  for  in- 
stance, is  not  nearly  so  corrupt  as  *  Othello  ' " 

And  so  forth,  with  apparently  complete  success. 
Edgar  grew  animated  over  it,  Lucia  was  animated  al- 
ready. But  the  success  was  superficial:  she  had  put 
a  layer  of  paint  over  a  crack  that  went  down  into  the 
centre  of  the  machinery  of  life,  and  when,  half  an  hour 


THE    CLIMBER  287 

later,  they  came  in  and  parted  with  a  little  secret  hand- 
pressing,  he  to  his  room  to  read  the  prophetic  works 
of  Blake,  she  to  rest  a  little  before  dressing,  each  sat 
silent  for  a  while,  and  Edgar's  page  was  long  unturned 
and  Lucia  looked  at  the  little  sparkle  of  fire  that  she 
had  lit  in  her  bedroom  without  much  thought  of  rest. 
Utterly  as  he  had  yielded,  genuinely  as  he  had  owned 
himself  shameful,  to  him  mysterious  characters,  like 
the  writing  on  the  wall,  began  to  show  themselves 
again.  Lucia  had  been  perfectly  reasonable — yes,  yes, 
in  her  explanation — but  her  original  words  had  borne 
a  far  more  obvious  interpretation.  But  it  would  not 
do  to  think  of  that;  he  was  wrong  about  it,  no  doubt 
he  was  wrong  about  it.  He  must  dismiss  it  altogether ; 
it  must  leave  his  mind. 

It  left  the  surface  of  his  mind,  but  it  did  not  leave 
his  mind.  It  sank,  instead,  so  deep  down  that  for  the 
present  it  was  out  of  sight. 

And  Lucia  looked  at  her  fire.  Certain  words  of 
Madge  Heron's  came  back  to  her  mind.  "  You  must 
settle  if  your  string  is  to  be  black  or  white;  are  you 
going  to  be  good  or  to  be  bad  ?  ' ' 

She  had  done  a  deplorably  mean  thing  that  after- 
noon, and  she  knew  it.  She  had,  by  accident,  shown 
Edgar  a  bit  of  her  real  self,  and  it  had  shocked  him 
intolerably.  Then,  so  to  speak,  she  had  quickly  put  a 
sort  of  distorting  mirror  in  front  of  him,  herself 
crouching  behind  it,  so  that  he  might  see  not  her,  but 
a  deformed  image  of  himself.  When  he  was  sufficiently 
disgusted  with  it,  she  had  dexterously  tweaked  it  away, 
and  again  shown  him  herself,  smiling,  generous,  for- 
giving. It  was  not  nice,  but  it  was  clever.  He  had  not 
an  idea  how  this  wonderful  conjuring  feat  was  done. 


288  THE   CLIMBEE 

It  had  completely  taken  him  in.  But  it  was  necessary 
to  take  him  in :  there  would  have  been  ruin  otherwise. 
And  if  somewhere  deep  down  in  her  a  little  voice — 
conscience,  perhaps,  or  the  voice  of  God — said,  '  *  I  am 
hurt ;  it  hurts  me  that  you  should  be  like  that, ' '  the  voice 
was  very  little,  very  far  away,  very  much  covered  up 
with  the  pillows  and  conveniences  of  life.  And  Madge 
Heron  was  coming  next  week ;  Lucia  felt  that  she  must 
tell  her  about  it  all.  Madge  liked  her  immensely,  but 
she  did  not  do  her  justice;  she  said  she  only  tinkled. 
Surely  when  she  knew  how  splendidly  loyal  Lucia  had 
been,  how  she  had  risked  a  great  deal  for  the  sake  of 
a  friend,  and  for  the  management  of  a  husband,  Madge 
would  do  her  better  justice. 

The  charming  telegram  which  Lucia  had  sent  off  to 
Aunt  Cathie  was  received  by  that  lady  some  half  an 
hour  later,  and  threw  her  into  a  state  of  agitation  that 
was  not  without  its  pleasing  side.  Nothing  could  be 
done  that  evening,  except  acquaint  Elizabeth,  who  had 
so  far  recovered  from  an  attack  of  bronchial  catarrh 
that  she  was  able  to  come  downstairs  and  keep  all  the 
windows  shut,  with  the  cordiality  of  her  welcome,  but 
Aunt  Cathie  foresaw  busy  days  to  follow.  For  the 
Hampshire  Express  had  announced  this  very  morning 
that  there  would  be  a  large  shooting  party  at  Brayton 
the  following  week,  and  the  question  of  dresses  was  of 
extraordinary  complication.  Had  Cathie  known  that 
there  was  to  be  a  party,  it  was  doubtful  whether  she 
would  have  proposed  herself,  but,  having  done  so,  in  in- 
nocence of  the  subsequent  knowledge,  she  turned  a  firm 
but  excited  face  towards  the  event.  She  wished,  how- 
ever, that  Elizabeth  would  play  her  patience  and  not 


THE    CLIMBER  289 

read  the  Hampshire  Express.  She  might  come  across 
that  fragment  of  information,  and  Cathie  saw  that  the 
result  would  be  irony. 

Elizabeth  gave  a  rather  thick  cough;  usually  she 
gave  thin  coughs,  but  there  had  been  bronchial 
catarrh.  But  Cathie  knew  what  the  cough  meant, 
Elizabeth  laid  down  the  Hampshire  Express. 

' '  I  see  you  have  chosen  your  date  for  going  to  Bray- 
ton  with  some  care,  Catherine, ' '  she  said.  '  *  You  will  get 
there  on  the  day  the  large  shooting-party  assembles." 

"  Yes;  didn't  know  it  when  I  suggested  Tuesday 
next  week, ' '  said  Cathie. 

Elizabeth  tottered  to  the  patience  table  with  eye- 
brows markedly  raised.  That  sort  of  silence  with  her 
implied  dissent.  Then,  after  a  suitable  pause,  she 
spoke  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  I  hope  you  will  have  a  very  pleasant  week,  Cath- 
erine, ' '  she  said,  ' l  and  not  feel  that  you  are  thrusting 
yourself  into  circles  to  which  you  do  not  belong.  I 
suppose  times  have  changed,  or  I  daresay  it  is  I  who 
am  getting  old-fashioned ;  but  in  years  that  you  can  re- 
member even  better  than  I  we  should  not  have  thought 
of  leaving  home  in  October  when  we  had  been  away  all 
August.  Yes,  the  ace  is  at  the  bottom,  as  usual.  You 
will  no  doubt  take  a  great  many  dresses  with  you,  and 
a  good  deal  of  jewellery.  As  I  shall  be  alone  in  the 
house  it  will  be  a  relief  to  know  that  the  amethysts  are 
not  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  first  burglar  who  cares  to 
walk  into  your  bedroom.  No  doubt  you  would  like  to 
take  my  pearls  also.  I  shall  be  delighted  to  lend  you 
them.  I  daresay  Lucia  will  not  remember  that  they 
are  mine,  and  not  yours,  and  think  that  you  are  mas- 
querading about  in  other  people's  things.  And  it  is 


290  THE   CLIMBER 

very  unlikely  that  anybody  else  will  be  there  who  knows 
either  of  us." 

Cathie  could  easily  afford  to  overlook  what  bitter 
sarcasm  there  was  in  this  peculiarly  acid  speech.  She 
was  often  afraid  she  thought  far  too  much  about  dress, 
and  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  question  of  jewellery  had 
been  much  in  her  mind  since  Lucia's  telegram  had  ar- 
rived. But  Elizabeth's  offer  to  lend  her  the  pearls 
made  a  solid  foundation  for  a  varied  gorgeousness. 
The  pearls  were  magnificent — Roman,  and  three  large 
and  lustrous  rows  of  them. 

"  Thanks,  dear  Elizabeth,"  she  said.  "  Shall  like 
the  pearls.  Kind  of  you.  Amethysts  one  night,  pearls 
the  next." 

A  great  project  was  in  Cathie's  mind.  But  she 
looked  with  a  diplomatic  eye  at  her  sister's  patience  to 
see  if  it  was  prospering  before  she  broached  the  sub- 
ject to  her,  for  it  was  daring.  For  a  little  while  it  hung 
in  the  balance ;  then  by  some  stroke  of  great  good  for- 
tune Elizabeth  got  no  less  than  two  spaces,  and  began 
piling  up  cards  with  a  hand  that  was  fevered  with  suc- 
cess. Black  knaves  went  on  to  red  queens,  red  queens 
nestled  under  black  kings,  aces  flowed  out  on  the  table, 
and  showers  of  twos  and  threes  and  fours  were  poured 
on  them. 

Then  Cathie  spoke,  for  Elizabeth  was  actually 
smiling. 

"I've  been  thinking,  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "  whether 
I  wouldn't  take  Jane  with  me  to  Brayton  as  my  maid. 
It's  a  big  party,  you  see:  everybody  will  have  maids. 
Then  my  shoulder  has  been  very  rheumatic  lately. 
Who's  to  rub  it  if  I  don't  take  someone?  Can't  reach 
it  myself,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  ask  a  strange  house- 


THE    CLIMBER  291 

maid.  And  with  the  amethysts  and  your  pearls,  I 
should  be  easier  if  I  knew  that  Jane  was  looking  after 
them.  Besides,  there's  the  tipping  to  think  of.  If  an- 
other servant  looks  after  me  and  rubs  me,  I  shall  have 
to  give  her  something  handsome,  and  all  you  set 
against  that  is  Jane's  fare  to  Brayton  and  back,  but 
two  stations  away.  The  cab's  the  same  whether  I  take 
her  or  not.  And  if  I  want  tea  in  the  morning,  or  have 
to  ring  my  bell,  it  will  be  better  that  Jane  should  an- 
swer it.  Having  a  maid  will  make  me  seem  more  like 
the  rest  of  them,  too.  One  doesn't  want  to  be 
peculiar. ' ' 

Elizabeth  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  for  "  Em- 
press "  was  rapidly  coming  out,  a  thing  that  she  had 
not  done  since  August.  There  was  a  moment 's  check ; 
then  there  was  another  space,  and  the  thing  was  done. 
It  was  no  time  for  sarcasm  or  fault-finding. 

"  It's  '  out,'  : '  she  said.  "  Last  night  was  the  last 
night  but  three  at  Littlestone.  Yes,  Cathie,  I  see  no  ob- 
jection. I  think  it  is  a  sensible  plan;  it  will  do  Jane 
good,  too,  if  she  feels  up  to  it." 

"  Then  that's  settled,"  said  Aunt  Cathie  quickly,  for 
fear  Elizabeth  might  see  objections.  "  And  it's  most 
thrilling  that  your  patience  has  come  out.  I  well  re- 
member the  last  time." 

Elizabeth  gathered  up  the  cards. 

"  I  feel  better,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  get  a  good 
night 's  rest,  I  hope. ' ' 

With  morning  storm  and  stress  really  began  for 
Cathie.  She  acquainted  Jane  with  her  destiny  at  break- 
fast, and  told  her  that  while  they  were  at  Brayton  she 
would  be  Jane  no  longer,  but  Arbuthnot,  and  that  she 


292  THE    CLIMBER 

must  be  very  careful,  in  case  she  saw  Miss  Lucia,  to 
say  "  my  lady  "  instead.  It  was  settled  also  that 
Cathie  should  begin  calling  Jane  by  her  surname  at 
once,  so  that  it  might  not  seem  strange  to  either  of 
them  when  the  thing  had  to  be  done  in  earnest.  Other- 
wise Cathie  was  sure  that  she  would  stammer,  or  that 
Jane  would  not  recognize  that  she  was  being  spoken  to. 
And  Arbuthnot  she  was  when  the  urn  came  in. 

Then  there  was  the  tremendous  question  of  dresses. 
Without  further  ado,  Cathie  sent  Arbuthnot  to  the 
paper  shop  at  the  corner  of  the  road,  where  residential 
Brixham  became  mercantile,  to  get  current  copies  of 
all  the  ladies'  papers,  up  to  a  maximum  of  four,  that 
she  could  find  there.  An  hour's  studious  perusal  of 
these  gave  her  sufficient  information  as  to  what  people 
were  wearing  now,  and  an  entire  turnout  of  her  ward- 
robe followed.  Walking-dresses,  she  was  glad  to  see 
on  the  authority  of  Ladies'  Dress,  were  very  simple 
this  autumn,  and  cut  much  on  the  lines  of  what  was 
known  as  the  "  old  speckledy."  But  the  old  speckledy 
was  certainly  old,  and  a  little  uncertain  about  its  shape, 
while  the  new  speckledy,  which  Cathie  had  on  at  the 
moment,  was,  by  the  standard  of  Ladies'  Dress,  unsuit- 
ably florid. 

She  surveyed  this,  comparing  it  with  that  which  the 
very  small-headed  female  was  wearing  in  Ladies' 
Dress  in  the  pier-glass  of  her  wardrobe. 

"  Most  unfortunate,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  The 
old  speckledy  a  year  or  two  ago  would  have  been  just 
the  thing  now.  Perhaps  if  Ja— Arbuthnot  irons  it. 
It's  just  like  *  walking  dress,  suitable  for  going  out  with 
the  shooters.'  It's  as  like  as  a  pea." 


THECLIMBEE  293 

Aunt  Cathie  rang  the  bell  and  Arbuthnot  appeared. 

"  I'll  take  the  old  speckledy,"  she  said,  "  and  the  blue 
serge  with  the  yellow  facings,  and  I  shall  travel  in 
what  I've  got  on.  That  will  be  three.  And  the  Sun- 
day satin." 

"  Yes,  miss.  Did  you  ring,  miss?  "  asked  Arbuth- 
not. The  question  was  excusable  since  there  were  eight 
complete  days  yet  before  she  need  begin  to  pack.  It 
could  hardly  have  been  for  this  that  Aunt  Cathie  rang. 

11  Yes;  the  dresses  as  I  tell  you.  Iron  the  old  speck- 
ledy,  Jane;  that  was  what  I  rang  about.  Iron  it  to- 
day, please,  and  let  me  see  how  it  comes  out.  That  will 
be  four  day-gowns,  won't  it?  ' 

Arbuthnot  looked  incredulous. 

"  Four  day-gowns  for  a  week's  visit?  "  she  asked. 

Cathie  was  strong  on  the  subject. 

11  Yes,  certainly  four,"  she  said.  "  There's  the  old 
speckledy.  Take  it  down  now.  One  can't  tell.  It  may 
turn  out  all  right.  I've  seen  a  dress  so  altered  by  a 
good  ironing  that  you  wouldn't  know  it." 

Still  following  the  lines  so  uncompromisingly  laid 
down  in  these  papers,  a  tea-gown  was  the  next  question 
for  decision.  Shortly  before  lunch-time  Cathie  decided 
against  it.  With  a  maid  in  attendance,  she  could  easily 
have  tea  upstairs  when  she  came  in  from  walking  with 
the  shooters,  and  rest  in  her  room  till  dinner,  since  no 
amount  of  carpentering,  however  drastic,  would  trans- 
form any  of  the  gowns  at  her  disposal  into  a  resem- 
blance, however  distant,  to  what  a  "  lady  of  title  "  said 
was  being  worn  now  at  tea.  Then  came  the  question  of 
evening-gowns,  and  over  these  Cathie  could  breathe  a 
sigh,  not  of  resignation,  but  of  passionate  content.  She 
was  more  than  neat  in  respect  of  them;  she  was  gor- 


294  THE    CLIMBER 

geous.  Even  her  second-best  was  like,  quite  like,  a  new 
confection  from  Paris,  and  as  for  the  puce-coloured 
silk,  which  had  practically  no  sleeves  at  all,  it  resembled 
nothing  so  much  as  the  dress  that  the  Duchess  of  Wilt- 
shire had  worn  at  the  last  drawing-room  in  July.  It 
was  even  more  complete  than  that  which  so  voluptu- 
ously figured  in  the  full-page  illustration,  for  Cathie's 
gown  had  a  Watteau  sacque  behind,  and  insertions  of 
lace,  rather  like  wedges,  at  the  bottom  of  the  skirt.  It 
was  comparatively  unused,  too.  If  she  had  been  taking 
it  abroad,  she  might  easily  have  been  charged  duty  on 
it,  for  she  had  only  worn  it  on  great  occasions,  such  as 
the  Mayoral  banquet  or  dinner  at  the  Bishop 's  three  or 
four  times  every  year  for  the  last  five  years.  Elizabeth 
had  occasionally  made  pungent  remarks  about  it,  but 
Catherine  felt  now  that  her  daring  in  buying  the  puce 
silk  originally  was  triumphantly  vindicated  now  that 
she  was  going  to  stay  in  the  house  of  an  earl  with  a 
shooting  party.  How  few  years  had  passed  since  Lucia 
had  come  to  them — orphaned,  forlorn,  nearly  penni- 
less, and  now  it  was  necessary  for  Aunt  Catherine  to 
look  out  her  very  smartest  clothes  when  she  was  going 
to  visit  Lucia !  The  puce  silk  had  lived  through  all  this 
period,  and  to-day  its  shining  folds,  smelling  but  faintly 
of  camphor,  made  a  brave  show.  It  warmed  Cathie's 
heart  that  the  puce  silk  was  coming  out  for  Lucia,  and 
it  had  warmed  her  heart  to  receive  that  welcoming  tele- 
gram. For  it  was  to  no  quiet  week-end  that  she  was 
being  asked ;  she  was  asked  for  the  whole  of  a  week,  in 
which  the  first  shooting  party  of  the  year  was  to  as- 
semble. Cathie  was  not  of  snobbish  nature,  nor  any- 
thing resembling  it.  But  it  pleased  her  quite  enor- 
mously to  be  so  cordially  asked  to  what  Ladies'  Dress 


THE    CLIMBER  295 

would  call  a  smart  party.  Chiefly  it  pleased  her  be- 
cause Lucia  had  not  altered,  but  remained  as  affec- 
tionate and  considerate  as  she  had  always  been. 

Aunt  Cathie  turned  from  the  consideration  of  dress 
and  from  consideration  of  sentiment  to  another  im- 
portant affair.  But  she  was  equally  free  from  anxiety 
there  also.  After  Elizabeth's  splendid  offer  of  last 
night  she  need  take  no  thought  for  jewellery.  There 
were  the  amethysts,  necklace,  bracelets,  and  brooch, 
firmly  set  in  pure  gold.  There  were  the  three  rows  of 
Eoman  pearls,  very  large  and  lustrous,  and  of  a  mag- 
nificence indistinguishable  from  the  authentic  article. 
Indeed,  if  they  were  distinguishable  at  all,  they  were 
distinguishable  the  other  way  round,  so  to  speak,  for 
the  little  clasp  of  real  pearls  which  fastened  them  were 
less  remarkable,  since  they  were  small  and  rather  stale- 
looking.  But  even  they  were  but  the  frame  of  a  superb 
garnet.  There  were  other  embellishments,  too,  for  the 
day — a  row  of  amber  beads,  which  Professor  Joblis 
had  pronounced  to  be  very  fine,  and  probably  Egyptian, 
and  which  exactly  matched  the  yellow  facings  of  the 
blue  serge ;  a  pink  coral  brooch,  a  malachite  cross,  and 
a  large  pin  for  fastening  flowers,  from  the  head  of 
which  depended  a  solid  silver  pig.  Aunt  Cathie, 
whether  she  had  flowers  or  not,  was  accustomed  to  wear 
this  pinned  to  the  front  of  her  dress.  People  said  it 
was  so  quaint,  and  it  made  a  good  opening  for  conver- 
sation. 

Aunt  Cathie  came  down  rather  late  to  lunch,  feeling 
she  had  spent  a  thoroughly  delightful  though  very 
strenuous  morning.  At  intervals  it  had  occurred  to  her 
whether  it  was  right  to  think  so  much  about  dress,  but, 


296  THE   CLIMBER 

on  the  whole,  she  believed  her  busy  hours  to  have  been 
justified,  for  since  Lucia  had  ascended  into  the  ranks  of 
those  whose  dresses  formed  illustrations  for  sixpenny 
papers,  and  had  asked  Cathie  to  join  her  there,  it  was 
clear  that  for  Lucia's  sake,  as  well  as  her  own,  she 
must  appear  in  suitable  apparel.  It  would  never  do  if 
Lucia  had  cause  to  be  ashamed  of  her  shabbiness.  But 
though  much  had  been  done,  much  still  remained  to  do. 
Hats,  gloves,  boots,  jackets,  all  required  thought  and  in- 
spection. Cathie  saw  that  the  eight  days  that  would 
still  elapse  before  she  started  would  be  none  too  many 
for  all  that  had  got  to  be  crammed  into  them. 

On  coming  down  she  found  Elizabeth  waiting  for  her 
in  a  most  sarcastic  mood.  The  excitement  of  "  Em- 
press ' '  coming  out  had  apparently  kept  her  awake,  and 
when  she  asked  Cathie  if  there  was  anything  of  interest 
in  the  papers,  it  soon  came  out  that  Cathie's  absorp- 
tion in  dress  had  prevented  her  from  even  glancing  at 
them. 

Elizabeth,  having  ferreted  out  these  frivolous  se- 
crets, sat  for  a  while  silently  thinking  out  a  comment. 

* '  All  I  beg  you,  Cathie, ' '  she  said  at  last,  ' '  is  not  to 
go  and  make  a  guy  of  yourself.  A  plain  grey  dress  for 
the  day  and  your  high  black  satin  for  the  evening  would 
be  far  more  suitable  than  puce  silks.  And  do  you  pro- 
pose to  wear  pearls  with  puce  f  ' ' 

Cathie  could  not  be  daunted  to-day. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  my  amethysts  will  go  with  the 
puce.  The  pearls  will  go  with  the  grey." 

Then  she  did  what  was  rare  with  her :  she  made  an 
appeal  to  her  sister. 

"  Oh,  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "  right  or  wrong,  I  am 
enjoying  it  so.  Please  don't  try  to  spoil  it." 


THE   CLIMBER  297 

"  I  should  have  thought  lending  you  my  pearls 
wasn't  spoiling  it,"  observed  Elizabeth. 

That  had  to  be  said,  it  was  only  doing  the  barest  jus- 
tice to  herself.  But  after  that,  in  spite  of  her  sleepless 
night,  she  said  no  more,  and  indeed  magnanimously 
changed  the  subject,  remarking  that  wasps  were  plen- 
tiful. 


CHAPTER  XHI 

ACTNT  CATHIE  had  arrived  and  was  resting  in  her 
bedroom  at  Brayton  before  dressing  for  dinner. 
Lucia  was  coming  up  for  a  chat  later,  but  Aunt  Cathie 
was  glad  to  be  alone  for  a  little,  and  recover  from  the 
excitement  and  strangeness  of  it  all.  It  was  bewilder- 
ing; things  happened  as  they  did  in  books  where  money 
is  obviously  no  object.  Three  or  four  motors  had  been 
waiting  at  the  little  wayside  station  (the  train  by  which 
Aunt  Cathie  was  to  travel  had  been  sent  her  on  a  post- 
card by  Lucia,  who  was  having  it  stopped  on  purpose), 
and  out  of  it  poured  a  perfect  mob  of  people  who  all 
knew  each  other  so  intimately  that  she  heard  nothing 
but  nicknames  or  Christian  names.  There  was  a  duch- 
ess among  them,  for  Aunt  Cathie  heard  an  extremely 
smart  female  in  a  very  rustling  dress,  who  carried  a 
little  scarlet  leather  jewel  case,  speak  to  her  as  "  Your 
Grace,"  while  everybody  else  called  her  Mouse.  And 
slowly,  the  awful  certainty  dawned  on  Cathie  that  this 
resplendent  female  was  Mouse's  maid.  For  the  serv- 
ants there  was  an  enormous  omnibus,  and  for  the  lug- 
gage several  large  carts,  into  which  Arbuthnot,  who 
stood  looking  like  a  tall  grey  monument  of  despair,  was 
watching  her  mistress's  trunks  being  put.  Then  Cathie 
observed  that  she  was  led  away  to  the  omnibus,  which 
she  entered  with  the  air  of  one  who  took  her  place  in  the 
tumbril  that  was  to  carry  her  to  instant  execution. 
Then  an  enormous  footman  touched  his  hat  to  her, 
called  her  "  my  lady,"  which  somehow  was  gratifying 

29S 


THE    CLIMBER  299 

to  Cathie,  and  found  her  a  place  in  a  motor  with  two 
strange  men  and  the  Duchess.  They  were  all  most  po- 
lite and  friendly,  though  Cathie  was  tongue-tied  with 
shyness,  and  Mouse  pushed  a  footstool  to  her,  hoped 
she  had  got  plenty  of  room,  remarked  how  early  it  got 
dark,  and  wondered  why  the  motor  crawled  so.  To 
Cathie  it  appeared  that  they  were  going  at  the  most 
dangerous  pace,  and  it  was  a  great  relief  to  her  when 
they  reached  the  house  without  accident. 

Lord  Brayton  welcomed  them,  and  there  was  Lucia, 
looking  more  radiantly  beautiful  than  ever,  who  gave 
her  a  charming  little  butterfly  kiss,  a  cup  of  tea,  hoped 
Aunt  Elizabeth  was  better,  and  then  began  talking  to  a 
dozen  people  all  at  once,  in  a  language  which,  though 
certainly  English,  conveyed  nothing  whatever  to 
Cathie.  She  felt  stranger  than  would  some  survival  of 
the  glacial  period,  if  it  was  suddenly  brought  into  a 
menagerie  full  of  animals  evolved  a  million  years  later. 
And  the  Christian  names  and  nicknames  confused  her 
so  horribly;  the  moment  she  thought  that  somebody 
was  certainly  Tom,  he  turned  out  to  be  the  Babe.  And 
Lord  Mallington  was  Harry  and  also  Tubs,  so  that  in  a 
couple  of  minutes  she  had  forgotten  that  he  was  Lord 
Mallington  at  all,  while  there  was  another  Harry  whose 
surname  never  penetrated  her  memory.  Edgar  did  all 
that  could  be  done.  He  and  Lucia  introduced  her  to 
everybody,  so  that  her  own  name  positively  rang  in  her 
ears,  but  beyond  that  (which  she  knew  already)  she 
had  grasped  little  else,  except  that  Mouse  was  the 
Duchess  of  Wiltshire.  Ladles'  Dress,  with  its  full- 
page  illustration  of  the  gown  she  wore  at  the  drawing- 
room,  fixed  that  in  her  memory,  and  Cathie  wondered 
whether  she  would  wear  it  again  here.  How  inter- 


300  THE   CLIMBER 

esting  if  she  wore  it  the  same  night  as  she  herself  was 
wearing  the  puce  silk,  which  it  so  much  resembled. 

Then  somebody,  the  Babe,  she  believed,  told  her  that 
they  were  going  to  have  a  drive  to-morrow,  and  Cathie, 
putting  all  her  courage  on  the  conversational  altar,  said 
loudly  and  distinctly  that  she  would  enjoy  that  very 
much.  But  the  drive  turned  out  to  be  partridges,  and 
even  the  knowledge  that  the  old  speckledy,  which  had 
been  marvelously  renovated  by  the  ironing,  was  so  like 
to  the  dress  worn  by  the  lady  with  the  small  head  when 
walking  with  the  shooters,  did  not  entirely  console  her 
for  this  dreadful  mistake.  But  how  could  she  know 
that  drive  meant  partridges  ?  She  hoped  the  Babe  did 
not  think  that  she  shot,  as  she  had  read  some  ladies 
did. 

All  these  things  went  to  form  the  groundwork  of 
Aunt  Cathie 's  reflections,  which,  though  slightly  alarm- 
ing in  certain  aspects,  had  a  pleasing  terror  about 
them.  Not  for  a  moment,  even  when  they  came  into  the 
drawing-room  and  its  brilliant  illumination  after  the 
dark  of  the  drive,  and  a  tide  of  guests,  already  arrived, 
rose  to  meet  the  other  tide  with  which  Cathie  had  come, 
and  they  all  began  talking  loudly  and  simultaneously, 
did  she  falter.  She  gathered,  also,  that  the  house  was 
not  full  even  yet,  and  that  a  fresh  contingent  was  ar- 
riving in  time  for  dinner.  "Well,  so  much  the  better ;  it 
was  all  homage  to  Lucia,  and  had  Cathie  only  grasped 
a  few  of  their  names  she  would  have  been  scarcely  at 
all  terrified.  But  it  was  the  conversing  with  a  crowd  of 
anonymous  folk  that  was  a  little  agitating;  no  doubt, 
however,  she  would  learn  their  names  in  time. 

Then  came  a  sound  outside  as  if  several  people  were 
running  races  down  the  corridor  of  polished  oak,  which 


THE   CLIMBER  301 

Cathie  had  found  so  very  slippery  to  walk  on  at  all,  fol- 
lowed by  a  loud  bang  as  if  somebody  had  fallen  down, 
and  loud  peals  of  laughter,  in  which  she  thought  she  de- 
tected Lucia's  merriment.  Then  came  Lucia's  voice. 

11  Oh,  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  funny?  The 
whole  house  shook,  Tom.  I'm  sure  you  must  weigh 
twenty  stone.  Yes,  Mouse,  that's  your  room  at  the 
end  of  the  passage,  left-hand  side,  you  know,  not  the 
right.  That's  where  the  Babe's  cradle  is.  But  do  see 
he's  dressed  in  time,  and  help  him  to  brush  his  hair,  if 
he  needs  assistance.  Half-past  eight  dinner,  but  really 
half -past,  because  Edgar  always  dies  at  twenty  minutes 
to  nine  if  he  hasn't  begun  to  eat  by  then.  So  please  be 
punctual,  all  of  you.  I  hope  you'll  all  find  your  rooms. 
I  don't  know  where  they  all  are." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Lucia?  "  said  a  man's 
voice. 

Cathie  could  not  hear  the  reply;  there  were  a  few 
whispered  words,  and  a  stifled  laugh,  that  suddenly 
made  her  feel  a  little  uncomfortable.  Then  Lucia 
tapped  and  said : 

"  Darling  Aunt  Cathie,  may  I  come  in?  " 

Aunt  Cathie  was  sitting  by  the  fire  with  only  one 
candle,  and  the  room  was  nearly  dark  in  consequence. 
She  had  thought  it  strange  that  there  should  only  be 
one  candle,  for  at  Fair  View  Cottage  they  always  gave 
their  guests  two  on  the  dressing-table  and  two  on  the 
writing-table.  But  no  doubt  they  would  bring  a  lamp 
soon.  Then  Lucia  entered  and  spoke. 

"  But  it's  absolutely  pitch  dark,  like  Egypt,"  she 
said.  "  Where  are  you,  Aunt  Cathie?  I  can't  see  any- 
thing." 

A  sound  clicked  in  the  gloom,  and  half  a  dozen  elec- 


302  THE   CLIMBER 

trie  lights  flared  out  by  the  bed,  by  the  dressing-table, 
by  the  writing-table. 

"  Or  did  you  find  the  light  too  strong?  "  asked  Lucia. 
"  Shall  I  put  them  out  again?  ' 

Aunt  Cathie  rose  to  greet  her. 

"  Not  for  worlds,"  she  said.  "  Never  thought  of 
electric  light.  Why,  it's  quite  an  illumination.  Beau- 
tiful." 

Lucia  produced  a  small  cigarette  case,  and  suddenly 
broke  out  laughing  again. 

"  You  never  saw  anything  so  funny,"  she  said. 
* '  Harry  was  racing  Mouse  down  to  the  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor, and  he  went  over  exactly  like  a  shot  rabbit.  Yes, 
don't  be  shocked,  dear  Aunt  Cathie,  but  I  do  occa- 
sionally smoke,  on— on  alternate  Tuesdays,  you  know, 
like  your  garden-parties  at  Brixham.  Only  Edgar 
doesn't  like  me  to  smoke  in  my  bedroom;  why,  I  can't 
imagine — so  I  have  to  smoke  in  other  people's.  Oh,  and 
Maud  and  her  Chubby  come  this  evening.  You  will 
like  to  see  Maud  again,  won't  you?  ' 

"  And— was  it  Chubby?  "  asked  Aunt  Cathie. 

"  Yes,  mixture  of  Charlie  and  husband,  you  see; 
also  it  rather  describes  him.  At  least,  he  isn't  chubby, 
you  know,  that's  why.  Let's  see.  To-night  Harry 
takes  you  down.  He's  great  fun,  but  don't  talk  to  him 
about  the  Underground,  or  he  '11  go  into  peals  of  laugh- 
ter. You  see  his  aunt  was  killed  there  in  a  dreadful 
railway  accident;  she  fell  on  the  electric  rail  and  was 
literally  roasted,  and  left  Harry  all  her  money. 
She " 

"  Oh,  how  shocking,"  said  Aunt  Cathie,  "  but  why 
does  he  laugh?  " 

Lucia's  eye  suddenly  fell  on  the  puce-coloured  silk 


THE   CLIMBER  30a 

that  was  laid  out  on  her  aunt's  bed.  The  light  shone 
very  distinctly  on  to  it  and  she  rapidly  grasped  the 
manner  of  it.  For  one  moment  she  looked  almost  an- 
noyed, the  next  she  nearly  laughed,  and  the  third  she 
spoke  lightly  and  good-humouredly. 

"  Dearest  Aunt  Cathie,"  she  said,  "  is  that  for  to- 
night? It's  almost  too  grand,  isn't  it?  It's  the  kind  of 
thing  that  the  wives  of  South  African  millionaires  go 
to  the  drawing-room  in.  You  will  find  us  all  in  scrubby 
country  frocks,  you  know. ' ' 

A  gleam  of  heavenly  triumph  came  into  Aunt 
Cathie 's  face.  The  puce-coloured  silk  was  smart :  there 
was  no  denying  it.  Lucia  herself  said  it  was  like  a 
millionairess's  drawing-room  dress. 

"  You  mustn't  put  us  all  in  the  shade,"  Lucia  went 
on.  "  Pray  wear  something  less  magnificent,  or  we 
shall  all  be  green  with  jealousy." 

Aunt  Cathie  gave  a  little  bubbling  sound  of  pleasure^ 
half  laugh,  half  purr.  She  would  tell  Elizabeth  about 
this,  and  Elizabeth's  sarcasm  would  be  mute  forever 
on  the  subject. 

"  Oh,  I  have  brought  other  dinner-gowns,"  she 
said.  "  There's  the  grey  with  the  lace;  perhaps  you 
remember  it. ' ' 

* '  Ah !  then  I  am  sure  that  would  be  far  more  suit- 
able for  a  higgledy-piggledy  party  like  this,"  said 
Lucia,  "  Do  wear  that  instead." 

Lucia  sat  down  near  the  fire  and  poked  it  into  a  blaze. 
She  felt  she  had  been  very  diplomatic  over  this,  for  she 
had  both  gratified  Aunt  Cathie  by  her  reception  of  the 
splendour  of  the  puce-coloured  silk  and  she  had 
averted  the  horror  of  seeing  her  appear  in  that  terrific 
garment.  No  detail  had  escaped  her;  she  had  seen 


304  THE    CLIMBER 

its  sleevelessness,  its  wedges  of  lace,  its  Watteau 
sacque. 

"  And  now  I'm  going  to  sit  and  talk  to  you  for  half 
an  hour, ' '  she  said.  l '  Or  rather,  you  must  talk  to  me. 
Tell  me  about  all  that's  going  on  in  Brixham,  how  your 
garden  is  getting  on,  who  has  been  giving  parties,  and 
how  the  servants  are.  And  that  nice  old  parlour-maid, 
who  always  had  a  cough.  Fanny,  wasn't  it!  No,  not 
Fanny — Jane." 

Cathie  could  not  resist  a  little  harmless  misrepre- 
sentation. 

"  I  brought  Arbuthnot,  of  course,  with  me,"  she 
said.  ' l  She  is  my  maid  now,  Lucia.  It  is  the  same  one. 
She  was  Jane." 

Lucia  gave  a  little  giggle  of  laughter. 

"  I  must  ask  Harry  if  he  is  any  relation,"  she  said. 
"  He  is  Arbuthnot,  you  know.  What  a  glorious  name 
for  a  maid.  It  sounds  too  grand  for  words.  And  I 
must  certainly  see  her.  Dear  me,  what  funny  dear  old 
days  those  were,  weren't  they?  Some  time  later  on, 
Aunt  Cathie,  you  must  let  me  come  and  stay  with  you 
for  a  day  or  two,  if  it  was  only  to  see  the  Dean's  wife. 
I  must  have  my  old  room,  and  1  shan't  bring  a  maid  at 
all — not  so  grand  as  you,  and  I  must  grub  in  the  gar- 
den, and  look  at  Aunt  Elizabeth  playing  patience  after 
dinner,  and  go  to  bed  at  ten  and  have  breakfast  at  half 
past  eight.  Breakfast  here?  Oh,  it's  any  time:  it's 
ready  when  you  are.  I  never  come  down  myself,  but 
there  are  things  to  eat,  and  you  can  have  it  in  your 
room." 

Lucia  was  quite  admirable  at  this  sort  of  fluent  ten- 
derness, which  meant  nothing  at  all  to  her,  but  so 
much  to  Aunt  Cathie.  She  was  delighted  to  come  and 


305 

sit  with  her  for  half  an  hour,  and  make  her  feel  at 
home ;  for  since,  against  her  own  better  judgment,  Aunt 
Cathie  had  not  been  put  off,  she  must  certainly  try  to 
make  her  visit  agreeable.  Besides,  she  herself  saw  how 
her  aunt  loved  to  see  her  shining,  as  Edgar  put  it,  and 
Lucia  never  had  enough  of  that  kind  of  homage.  In 
consequence,  the  feeling  of  strangeness  which  Aunt 
Cathie  had  so  markedly  felt  at  tea  had  quite  evapo- 
rated before  Lucia  found  it  necessary  to  "  fly  "  to  re- 
ceive the  last  contingent  of  her  guests,  who  would  be 
now  arriving.  As  she  flew,  she  cast  one  more  glance  at 
the  famous  puce-coloured  silk,  and  warmly  congratu- 
lated herself.  She  had  done  it  so  neatly,  too,  had  hurt 
nobody's  feelings. 

Aunt  Cathie  sat  and  looked  at  her  fire  when  Lucia 
had  gone  for  some  pleasant  retrospective  minutes.  It 
was  all  too  wonderful  to  think  all  this  was  Lucia's; 
that  this  great  houseful  of  people  was  being  enter- 
tained by  her  niece.  She  did  it  all,  too,  as  if  she  had 
been  born  to  it;  she  shrieked  with  laughter  when  a  peer 
of  the  realm  fell  down  in  the  corridor,  and  shouted 
chaffing  remarks  to  a  duchess.  Indeed,  it  had  been 
worth  a  week's  anxiety  about  dresses  to  see  this.  And 
everybody  was  so  young,  and  in  such  childishly  high 
spirits,  and  the  women  were  so  beautiful  and  the  house 
was  so  splendid.  And  yet  Lucia  was  just  the  same, 
and,  in  spite  of  all  the  duchesses  and  lords,  came  and 
chatted  to  her  aunt  in  her  bedroom.  But  Aunt  Cathie 
wished  she  would  not  smoke;  if  she  could  find  an  op- 
portunity, she  would  speak  to  her  about  it. 

Her  clock — rather  a  shocking  clock,  with  a  bronze 
lady  with  hardly  any  clothes  on  talking  to  a  bronze  gen- 
tleman in  an  equally  insufficient  costume — chimed 


506  THECLIMBEE 

eight,  and  Aunt  Cathie,  who  had  not  known  it  was  so 
late,  rang  the  bell  for  her  maid  with  a  little  thrill  at 
the  novel  dignity.  Arbuthnot  appeared  with  hot  water, 
looking  a  little  dazed. 

11  Well,"  said  Aunt  Cathie,  "  this  is  a  grand  house, 
isn't  it,  Arbuthnot?  And  her  ladyship  remembered  you 
and  said  she  must  speak  to  you." 

Arbuthnot  gave  a  little  choking  sigh. 

"  And  to  think  that  dinner's  over  by  now  at  home, 
miss,"  she  said. 

For  one  moment,  at  the  thought  of  the  crowd  of 
laughing,  jesting  people  who  knew  each  other  so  well, 
and  of  whom  she  did  not  even  know  the  names,  a  little 
pang  of  homesickness  came  over  Aunt  Cathie  at  the 
image  suggested  by  Arbuthnot  of  Elizabeth  sitting 
down  to  her  patience  in  the  drawing-room  at  home,  but 
she  instantly  shook  it  off. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  dinner  isn't  over  here,"  she  said, 
"  because  I'm  as  hungry  as  I  am  at  Littlestone.  Oh, 
and  her  ladyship  thinks  the  puce  silk,  perhaps,  is  too 
grand.  So  I  will  wear " 

At  that  critical  moment  Cathie's  eye  fell  on 
its  shimmering  folds,  its  sleeveless  splendour,  its  lace 
insertions,  and  the  temptation  was  irresistible.  To  be 
grander  than  the  duchesses!  To  make  them  all  feel 
that  they  had  scrubby  country  frocks  on,  so  that  they 
were  green  and  envious !  Aunt  Cathie  was  but  mortal, 
and  a  woman. 

"  I  think  I  will  wear  the  puce  silk  after  all,"  she  said. 
'  *  It  would  be  a  pity  to  have  brought  it,  and  not  wear  it 
at  all.  And  I  will  wear  my  amethysts  with  it — 
bracelets,  brooch,  and  necklace.  Get  them  out, 
Arbuthnot. ' ' 


THE   CLIMBER  307 

Cathie  spent  a  memorable  evening,  and  a  most  de- 
lightful one,  though  there  were  one  or  two  awkward 
moments.  Lucia,  for  instance,  had  clearly  told  her  that 
Harry  was  Lord  Arbuthnot,  and  as  such  she  addressed 
him,  just  to  show  she  knew.  But  it  appeared  that  it 
was  the  other  Harry  who  was  Lord  Arbuthnot,  and  this 
one  was  only  Mr.  Symes.  But  he  had  been  quite  de- 
lightful, and  he  seemed  to  enjoy  immensely  her  account 
of  a  dreadful  disturbance  there  had  been  in  Brixham 
society  a  year  ago,  over  the  precedence  to  be  taken  by 
the  Mayor's  daughter,  and  she  overheard  him  after- 
ward repeating  the  history  of  the  crisis  to  the  Duchess, 
who  was  as  much  amused  as  he  had  been.  Equally 
agreeable,  perhaps  even  more  agreeable,  was  the  re- 
ception (it  was  not  less  than  that)  accorded  to  the  puce- 
coloured  silk  and  the  amethysts.  She  had  come  down 
rather  late,  and  conversation  ceased  altogether  for  a 
moment  in  the  drawing-room  as  she  made  her  shining 
entrance.  But  she  could  not,  though  conscious  of  her 
own  splendour,  agree  with  Lucia  that  the  others  were 
scrubby.  Lucia  herself,  for  instance,  was  dazzling  in 
orange  chiffon,  though  it  was  true  she  had  no  lace  in- 
sertions, but  Jiminy  (whoever  she  was)  had  lace  on 
her  pink  satin,  which  Cathie  saw  at  once  was  quite  as 
fine  as  hers,  and  though  the  Duchess's  gown  was  of  the 
simplest,  Aunt  Cathie,  with  her  eye  acute  from  recent 
study  of  Ladies'  Dress,  saw  that  the  simplicity  of  it 
was  somehow  different  from  that  of  the  old  speckledy. 
Her  pearls,  too,  were  quite  as  large  as  those  of  Eliza- 
beth's Roman  set,  though  there  were  only  two  rows  of 
them,  but  awe  seized  Cathie  at  the  thought  that  per- 
haps these  were  real.  But  a  little  embarrassing,  again, 
was  the  discovery  at  the  conclusion  of  the  story  about 


308  THE   CLIMBER 

the  Mayor's  daughter,  which  she  told  at  some  length 
to  Harry,  who  was  on  her  left,  that  while  she  had  been 
talking  three  of  her  wineglasses  had  been  filled  to  the 
brim  with  sherry,  hock,  and  champagne  respectively. 
For  the  moment  it  made  her  quite  hot,  it  looked  so 
greedy. 

' '  Oh,  see  what  they  Ve  done  while  I  have  been  talk- 
ing/' she  said  reproachfully  to  Mr.  Symes. 

Dinner  was  laid  at  four  or  five  small  tables,  holding 
eight  each,  and  when,  towards  the  end  of  it,  everybody 
began  talking  to  everybody  else  across  the  tables, 
speaking  again  the  strange  language  which,  though 
English,  meant  nothing  to  Aunt  Cathie,  she  was  quite 
glad  to  sit  back  and  rest  and  watch  the  stir  and  anima- 
tion of  young  life.  Pleasant  it  was  again  after  dinner 
to  find  herself  sought  out  by  Maud,  who  introduced 
Chubby  to  her,  and  sat  with  her  and  talked  about  Little- 
stone.  Then  suggestions  were  made  about  bridge,  a 
game  Aunt  Cathie  did  not  know,  though  when  she  was 
asked  by  Edgar  if  she  would  play,  she  professed  her  en- 
tire willingness  to  learn  if  she  was  wanted  to  make  up  a 
table.  That  again  made  Mouse  laugh — they  all  laughed 
so  easily — who  said  it  would  be  trespassing  too  much 
on  her  good-nature,  and  they  all  laughed  again.  So  she 
looked  on  instead,  and  found  it  appeared  to  be  very 
easy,  like  dummy  whist,  in  fact — which  she  had  played 
often  and  often  for  cowrie-shells,  and  she  almost  re- 
pented of  her  confession  that  she  did  not  know  it,  since 
she  was  sure  she  would  have  picked  it  up  in  no  time. 
But  when  she  discovered  at  the  end  of  two  rubbers,  at 
another  table,  Lucia  had  lost  nine  pounds,  she  felt  she 
had  had  a  lucky  escape.  How  foolish  of  Lucia;  she 
could  not  be  much  of  a  player.  Indeed,  at  Brixham  she 


THE   CLIMBEK  309 

had   often  said  that   she   did  not  care  to   play  at 
cards. 

The  only  thing  in  fact  that  at  all  marred  her  evening-, 
for  the  affair  of  the  wineglasses  was  momentary  only, 
since  Harry  very  kindly  had  them  instantly  removed, 
was  Lucia  herself.  She  had  seemed  almost  to  avoid 
her  aunt,  and  did  not  even  kiss  her  when  she  said  good- 
night, or  come  to  her  room  afterwards,  as  Cathie  rather 
expected  her  to  do.  But  very  likely  she  was  upset  at 
losing  so  much  money ;  also  perhaps  she  was  vexed  that 
her  aunt  had  worn  the  puce  silk  after  all,  and  reduced 
them  all  to  green  envy.  But  its  wearer  had  enjoyed  it  so 
enormously  that  she  could  not  regret  the  risk  she  had 
taken  of  making  the  others  look  scrubby. 

Breakfast,  as  Lucia  had  told  her  aunt,  was  at  any  time 
that  she  happened  to  come  down,  and  Cathie,  not  wish- 
ing to  keep  other  people  waiting  while  she  breakfasted, 
had  come  down  at  a  quarter  past  nine,  to  find  herself 
quite  alone.  A  quantity  of  hot  dishes  with  burning 
spirit-lamps  underneath  them  were  on  the  sideboard, 
and  there  were  signs,  in  the  form  of  used  plates  and 
scattered  newspapers,  that  breakfasts  had  already 
been  going  on.  She  was  therefore  in  quite  a  dilemma ; 
it  seemed  so  strange  to  sit  down  and  have  breakfast 
all  alone  in  another  house,  but  the  alternative  to  that 
was  to  wait,  with  the  risk  that  everybody  who  intended 
to  breakfast  downstairs  had  already  done  so,  so  that  at 
any  moment  servants  might  come  in  and  begin  to  clear 
away.  If  that  happened,  Cathie  felt  quite  sure  she 
would  not  have  the  audacity  to  tell  them  that  she  had 
not  yet  breakfasted.  It  seemed  odd  to  her,  too,  that 
when  you  have  so  many  servants,  there  should  not  be 
four  or  five  anyhow  in  the  dining-room  at  breakfast 


310  THE   CLIMBER 

time ;  their  absence  inclined  her  to  think  that  breakfast 
was  indeed  over.  Yet  peeping  under  the  silver  covers 
of  the  dishes  on  the  side-table,  she  found  that  tre- 
mendous quantities  of  food  still  remained.  There  were 
kidneys,  bacon,  poached  eggs,  fish;  enough  to  give 
everybody  breakfast  twice  over.  She  felt  that  Eliza- 
beth would  be  shocked  at  such  extravagance.  Per- 
sonally, she  secretly  gloated  over  it;  it  was  Lucia's 
house  where  this  opulence  reigned. 

A  middle  way  solved  her  difficulty,  for  a  staid  and 
elderly  man,  looking  casually  in,  asked  her  with  great 
respect,  Aunt  Cathie  thought,  if  she  would  have  tea  or 
coffee,  and  a  moment  after  receiving  her  orders 
brought  in  a  little  tray  for  her  with  a  silver  teapot  and 
hot-water  jug.  She  could  not  help  asking  him  if  she 
was  right  in  beginning  alone,  and  his  assurance  on  that 
point  comforted  her.  He  also  rearranged  the  pages  of 
a  Morning  Post  for  her,  and  laid  it  suggestively  by  her, 
and  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  Cathie  turned  eagerly  to 
the  personal  paragraphs.  Yes,  that  was  what  she 
sought :  * '  Lord  and  Lady  Brayton  are  entertaining 
a  large  shooting  party,"  and  then  followed  a  string  of 
names,  Duchess  of  "Wiltshire,  Marquis  of  Kempsholt, 
Lord  Arbuthnot,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lindsay.  .  .  . 

Cathie  could  hardly  believe  her  eyes.  But  there  it 
was :  Miss  Catherine  Grimson. 

Other  people  began  to  straggle  in,  and  she  hastily 
folded  up  the  paper,  feeling  that  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  that  other  people  should  read  that  paragraph  and 
see  her  name  there.  It  was  as  if  she  had  suddenly  seen 
in  the  paper  that  Elizabeth  had  planted  a  polyanthus 
in  the  garden  of  Fair  View  Cottage.  All  her  life  she 
had  read  these  paragraphs  about  the  doings  of  people 


THE   CLIMBER  311 

she  had  never  seen,  and  in  many  cases  never  heard  of 
except  in  such  paragraphs,  and  here  was  she,  recorded 
and  printed  among  them.  Somebody  had  set  up  her 
name  in  type,  had  corrected  the  paragraph  perhaps, 
had  sent  it  broadcast  over  England. 

There  was  but  little  conversation  at  breakfast,  and 
indeed  she  was  the  only  woman  present.  Men  in  shoot- 
ing clothes  came  in,  nodded  to  each  other,  and  just  said 
good-morning  to  her,  and  then  sat  about  on  scattered 
islands,  each  seeming  to  avoid  proximity  to  anybody 
else,  and  got  through  their  meal  before  Aunt  Cathie 
had  finished  the  sole  which  she  had  taken.  Then  out- 
side the  noise  of  a  motor  crunching  the  gravel  was 
heard,  followed  by  a  second  and  a  third,  and  before  she 
had  finished  she  was  quite  alone  again. 

The  house  that  had  seemed  so  full  the  evening  before 
was  strangely  silent  and  deserted,  and  after  breakfast 
she  went  into  the  drawing-room,  where  they  had  sat 
last  night  after  dinner.  There  the  windows  were  open, 
the  fires  were  unlit,  visitors  were  clearly  not  expected 
to  sit  there.  The  shooters  had  started;  three  motor- 
cars full  of  men  had  left  the  door,  while  it  had  not  been 
suggested  even  that  she,  who  had  put  on  the  old  speck- 
ledy,  with  the  amber  beads  and  the  silver  pig,  should 
walk  with  the  shooters.  Meantime,  what  was  to  be 
done  ?  Where  was  she  to  go  ?  Fancy  having  a  party  in 
the  house  and  not  coming  down  to  breakfast!  Prob- 
ably Lucia  knew  what  was  the  right  thing,  but  it 
seemed  very  odd  to  Aunt  Cathie.  It  was  true  that  they 
had  been  up  late  the  night  before,  but  it  was  after  ten 
now,  and  Lucia  had  not  come  downstairs.  Nor  indeed, 
apparently,  had  any  woman  except  herself. 


312  THE   CLIMBER 

It  was  a  deliciously  warm  and  sunny  morning,  and 
though  Cathie  would  have  liked  to  go  back  into  the 
dining-room  and  read  that  amazing  paragraph  in  the 
Morning  Post  again,  she  was  not  equal  to  so  audacious 
a  feat,  for  fear  some  other  servant  might  come  and 
ask  her  whether  she  would  have  tea  or  coffee,  thinking 
she  had  only  just  come  down,  which  would  be  too  dread- 
ful a  suspicion,  since  it  was  half -past  ten.  But  the  fine- 
ness of  the  day  was,  so  she  thought  to  herself,  a  tempta- 
tion, especially  since  the  drawing-room  with  its  empty 
grates  and  open  windows  was  far  from  being  so,  and, 
still  a  little  desirous  of  a  comfortable  chair,  a  fire,  and  a 
paper,  she  told  herself  it  would  be  far  more  wholesome 
to  have  a  good  walk. 

Her  bedroom,  where  she  had  gone  to  fetch  her  hat, 
looked  inviting,  too.  It  was  already  garnished,  and 
though  the  windows  were  open  the  fire  was  laid,  ready 
for  a  match.  But  Cathie  did  not  know  if  it  was  the 
"  thing  "  to  sit  in  your  bedroom,  and  it  would  be  so 
dreadful  not  to  do  the  ' 1  thing  ' '  in  Lucia 's  house.  Be- 
sides, she  hankered  after  walking  with  the  shooters, 
and  if  that  amusement  was  to  be  indulged  in,  it  would  be 
dreadful  to  be  out  of  the  way  when  the  others  started, 
for  it  was  still  possible  that  walking  with  the  shooters 
did  not  necessarily  begin  when  the  shooters  began  walk- 
ing. Indeed  she  remembered  having  seen  that  ladies 
"  joined  the  shooters  at  lunch."  That  might  easily  be 
intended. 

At  last  there  were  signs  that  the  house  was  not  left 
unto  her  desolate.  In  the  hall  below  was  Maud,  looking 
among  letters  for  possible  property  of  her  own.  She 
hailed  her  with  delightful  cordiality. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Cathie,"  she  said,  "  are  you  going  out 


THE    CLIMBEK  313 

already!  How  energetic!  I  was  going  to  be  lazy  till 
lunch :  it  is  the  nicest  house  to  be  lazy  in  that  I  know. ' 7 

Aunt  Cathie  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Oh,  how  nice  to  see  somebody,"  she  said.  "  I 
didn't  know  where  to  go,  or  where  anybody  was.  Went 
into  the  drawing-room;  windows  open.  Supposed 
everybody  had  gone  out  or  was  still  in  their  rooms." 

Maud  laughed. 

"  You  are  too  grand  for  words,"  she  said,  "  wanting 
to  sit  in  the  drawing-room  in  the  morning.  There 's  the 
library,  and  the  morning-room,  and  Lucia's  sitting- 
room,  and  the  loggia  all  at  your  disposal.  Do  wait  for 
me,  anyhow,  till  I've  had  breakfast.  Isn't  it  dreadful? 
Half-past  ten,  and  I've  not  breakfasted.  Or  come  and 
sit  with  me  will  you,  and  give  me  countenance.  Lucia 
wanted  me  to  ride  with  her  at  eight,  but  I  absolutely  de- 
clined, and  sent  Chubby  instead.  They'll  be  in  soon,  I 
expect.  But  probably  we  shan't  see  Lucia  till  lunch. 
I  hear  there's  a  rehearsal  of  '  Salome,'  and  she  is  cer- 
tain to  be  there.  So  let's  spend  a  quiet  morning,  you 
and  I.  Or  what  would  you  like  to  do  ?  We  might  motor 
out  and  have  lunch  with  the  shooters." 

Aunt  Cathie  glowed  at  this.  Certainly  it  would  be 
very  pleasant  to  spend  a  quiet  morning,  but  she  felt 
like  a  child  at  a  fair,  who  must  see  and  do  all  there  is  to 
be  seen  and  done. 

' '  I  should  like  that, ' '  she  said.  ' '  But  if  we  don't  see 
Lucia,  how  can  we  go  out  in  a  motor?  " 

Maud  laughed  again. 

"  Oh,  I  drove  down  in  mine  yesterday,"  she  said, 
"  and  we'll  go  in  that.  Or  if  Chubby  takes  that,  we'll 
take  another.  It's  a  grab-house,  you  know;  we  all  grab 
what  we  want.  I  grab  you." 


314  THE   CLIMBER 

Maud  still  spoke  slowly,  evidently  meaning  all  she 
said,  and  Aunt  Cathie  somehow  felt  much  more  at  home 
with  her  than  she  did  with  Lucia,  even  when  the  latter 
came  and  sat  and  smoked  in  her  bedroom  before  dinner 
the  night  before.  Maud  was  in  no  way  different  from 
what  she  had  been  when  she  stayed  with  them  at  Little- 
stone,  whereas — the  feeling  was  instinctive  only — 
Lucia  seemed  now  to  have  sat  with  her  last  night  in- 
stead of  doing  something  else.  Maud  gave  the  impres- 
sion of  having  nothing  else  to  do,  or  at  least  as  if  to 
grab  Aunt  Cathie  was  to  do  what  she  liked  best.  But 
as  she  opened  the  dining-room  door  a  sudden  sound  of 
laughter  and  voices  came  from  within.  Lucia  was 
there,  in  riding  habit,  having  breakfast  with  Charlie, 
while  Mouse  stood  by  the  fireplace,  with  the  Morning 
Post  in  her  hand,  smoking  a  cigarette.  And  instantly 
Cathie  felt  herself  shy  and  self-conscious  again.  Lucia 
apparently  did  not. 

"  Morning,  Maud,"  she  said.  "  Not  breakfasted 
yet?  What  a  lazy!  Charlie  and  I  started  out 
at  eight,  and  rode  for  two  hours.  Ah,  Aunt  Cathie, 
you  late  too?  What  would  Brixham  say  if  they 
knew  you  came  down  to  breakfast  at  a  quarter  to 
eleven?  " 

"  Oh,  I  breakfasted  long  ago,"  said  Cathie.  "  I 
breakfasted  excellently." 

"  That's  right — just  what  I'm  doing,"  said  Lucia. 
"  No,  Chubby,  I  understand  Salome  doing  that  per- 
fectly. Imagine — oh,  you  can't,  as  you're  a  man.  But, 
Mouse,  imagine  being  desperately  in  love  with  a 
prophet  who  wouldn't  look  at  you,  and  kept  shouting 
out  curses  on  you  and  your  mother.  He  was  very  rude 
to  Herodias,  you  know.  Why,  of  course,  you  would 


THE   CLIMBER  315 

say,  *  Off  with  his  head,'  like  the  Queen  in  *  Alice  in 
Wonderland.'  " 

Chubby  was  drinking  tea,  but  put  down  his  cup 
quickly,  in  order  to  get  a  word  in.  It  was  necessary,  he 
found,  with  Lucia,  to  speak  at  once  if  you  were  going 
to  speak  at  all.  Otherwise  she  did. 

"  Yes,  you  would,  Lucia,"  he  said.  "  We  all  know 
that  you  would,  because  you  have  a  pagan  and  a  bar- 
baric nature.  You  are  a  throwback  to  some  savage 
ancestor.  Mouse  isn't.  She's — she's  just  a  lady." 

Mouse  rustled  her  paper  to  command  attention. 

"  Lucia,  you  are  a  snob  also  of  the  worst  class,"  she 
said.  "  Why,  oh,  why,  put  your  parties  in  the  Morning 
Post?  Listen:  'Lord  and  Lady  Brayton  are  entertain- 
ing a  shooting  party, '  etc.  There  we  all  are  in  a  row. 
I  shall  write  to  say  I  wasn't  there,  but  that  you  asked 
me." 

"  Oh,  that's  Edgar,"  said  Lucia.  "I'm  not  a  snob. 
Nor  is  he  really,  but  he's  a  prig,  if  you  don't  misunder- 
stand me.  Not  what  you  mean  by  a  prig,  but  what  I 
mean  by  a  prig." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  prig?  "  asked  Charlie.  "  I 
mean  the  same,  Edgar.  I  have  often  told  him  so." 

Lucia  put  both  her  elbows  on  the  table. 

"  I  mean — what  do  I  mean?  I  mean  a  man  who 
thoroughly  appreciates  all  that  is  beautiful  and  inter- 
esting and  artistic  and  improving,  and  knows  that  he 
appreciates  it.  He  likes  other  people  to  know  it  too ;  he 
never,  for  instance,  appreciated  you,  Mouse,  till  you 
wrote  that  dreadful  book  about  the  slums,  which  bored 
me  to  tears ;  but,  having  appreciated  that,  he  likes  the 
world  to  know  that  you  are  staying  with  us.  You  give 
tone  to  our  party — most  of  the  party  are  full  of  tone. 


316  THE   CLIMBER 

We  are  extremely  alive  and  intellectual.  In  fact,  there 
is  hardly  anyone  here,  except  perhaps  Maud  and 
Chubby,  who  haven't  done  something.  Oh,  and  you, 
darling  Aunt  Cathie.  And  Edgar  likes  the  world  to 
know  there  is  plenty  of  tone  in  his  house.  I  have  tone, 
you  know;  you  needn't  think  it,  but  I  have.  We  never 
pause  for  a  remark  in  our  house — again  I  except  Maud, 
who  always  does — something  happens,  somebody  says 
something,  whether  the  Dante  Society  are  dining  with 
us  or  what  Mouse  calls  the  Amen  Khyam  Club." 

1 '  I  never  did, ' '  said  Mouse. 

* '  Perhaps  not,  but  it  would  have  been  characteristic 
of  you  if  you  had. ' ' 

"  Then  that  would  have  been  dull  of  her,"  said 
Charlie,  "  because  if  anybody  says  or  does  what  is 
characteristic,  it  might  as  well  never  have  been  said  or 
done  at  all.  It  was  expected;  it  was  only  what  you 
knew  already." 

Lucia  looked  at  him  quickly. 

"  Oh,  Chubby,  that's  nearly  a  new  idea,"  she  said. 
' '  With  a  little  care  it  might  be  made  quite  a  new  idea. 
It's  quite  true.  Nobody  is  of  the  slightest  interest  as 
long  as  he  behaves  in  the  way  you  expect.  He's  like  a 
punctual  train  that  gets  to  the  stations  when  Bradshaw 
tells  it  to.  Give  me  the  South-Eastern,  now.  There's 
romance  for  you!  ' 

Mouse  looked  scornful. 

"  We  gave  it  you  neatly  written  out  when  you 
came  to  us  in  July,"  she  said,  "  and  you  motored 
instead." 

"  I  suppose  I  was  in  a  hurry,"  said  Lucia.  "  You 
have  to  be  at  leisure  to  be  romantic.  Haven't  you, 
Aunt  Cathie?  Brixham  has  heaps  of  leisure,  and  any- 


THE   CLIMBER  317 

thing  more  romantic  than  the  conduct  of  the  Dean's 
wife  at  the  performance  of  *  La  Rouille  '  here  I  never 
saw.  I  love  romance.  You  can  only  really  get  it  in  a 
country  house  and  in  the  plays  of  Mr.  Shaw.  Neither 
bear  the  slightest  resemblance  to  real  life.  That's  what 
romance  means.  Heavens!  It's  eleven,  and  I  told 
them  not  to  begin  the  rehearsal  without  me. ' ' 

Aunt  Cathie  was  standing  by  the  table  when  this 
stream  of  foreign  language  began;  then  she  saw  that 
that  was  awkward  and  sat  down.  Upon  which  a  foot- 
man offered  her  poached  eggs,  and  brought  her  a  little 
service  of  coffee.  That  was  even  more  awkward,  and 
she  got  up  again.  She  was  not  precisely  self-conscious, 
though  she  had  acute  moments  of  that  distressing  com- 
plaint. In  general  it  was  mere  bewilderment  that  she 
felt.  And  Brixham  was  romantic  because  it  bore  no  re- 
lation to  life — what  did  it  all  mean? 

But  Lucia  got  up  at  the  end  of  the  last  inexplicable 
remark  and  came  across  to  her,  drawing  her  away  with 
an  arm  entwined  in  an  arm  toward  the  window.  And 
the  others  went  on  talking,  just  as  if  it  was  a  stage, 
and  an  aside  had  to  be  conducted. 

* '  Dear  Aunt  Cathie, ' '  she  said,  "  I  do  hope  you  are 
enjoying  yourself,  and  of  course  you'll  go  out  and  have 
lunch  with  the  shooters,  and  flirt  with  Charlie,  or  do 
anything  you  choose.  Have  you  seen  all  our  volumes  of 
photographs  that  Edgar  and  I  brought  back  from 
abroad?  They  are  all  in  the  library  neatly  labelled, 
and  so  numerous  and  large  that  you  will  see  them  at 
once.  Or  would  you  like  to  spend  a  quiet  morning? 
Maud  always  does,  and  Mouse  is  going  to  ride,  but  you 
don't  ride,  do  you?  But  to-night  you  know,  after  din- 
ner, we  are  going  to  have  '  Salome.'  It's  an  opera  by 


318  THE    CLIMBER 

Strauss,  and  I'm  sure  you'd  think  it  dreadfully  ugly, 
unless  you  studied  it  first.  So  don't  come,  if  you  don't 
want  to  be  bored.  It's  all  screams  and  whistles  and 
explosions,  you  know,  like  a  railway  accident.  And 
perhaps  you  wouldn't  quite  like  the  story,  if  you  hadn't 
been  accustomed  to  it.  Wasn't  it  dear  of  Edgar!  He 
thought  of  that,  and  told  me  to  tell  you.  But  now  I 
must  fly;  I  must  go  to  their  last  rehearsal.  Lunch? 
No,  if  you  go  out  to  have  lunch  with  the  shooters,  you 
won't  see  me.  Till  dinner,  then;  and  pray  don't  come 
to  the  play,  if  you  feel  like  that  about  it.  But  do  go 
and  look  at  the  theatre ;  I  made  Edgar  build  the  stage 
last  year,  and  it  opens  out  of  the  loggia  by  the  drawing- 
room.  They  all  say  it's  wonderful  for  sound.  And 
to-night  we  shall  dine  in  sort  of  tea-gown  things.  You 
really  mustn't  wear  that  beautiful  puce  silk  again. 
What  a  nice  dress  you  have  on !  So  suitable  for  walk- 
ing. Oh,  what  delicious  amber  beads.  Don't  we  talk  a 
dreadful  lot  of  nonsense?  Mind  to  look  at  the  travel- 
volumes.  All  about  Egypt  and  Japan  with  lovely 
photographs.  And  Switzerland  too :  snow  mountains. ' ' 

There  was  no  need  for  Aunt  Cathie  to  reply,  and  in- 
deed no  opportunity.  Lucia  pressed  her  arm,  just  over 
a  somewhat  rheumatic  place,  but  Lucia  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  know  that,  and  next  moment  was  almost  shak- 
ing Charlie  from  his  chair  to  come  to  the  last  rehearsal 
of"  Salome." 

Lucia  dragged  her  prey  off  with  her,  leaving  the  door 
wide  open,  and  Mouse  came  across  the  room  to  Aunt 
Cathie. 

"  Darling  Lucia  lived  with  you  for  years,  did  she 
not?  "  she  asked.  "  Do  tell  us  what  happened.  It  is 
quite  too  interesting  for  anything.  Why  didn't  Brix- 


THE   CLIMBER  319 

ham  explode,  burn  with  a  blue  flame,  go  up  like  a 
sky-rocket?  " 

Aunt  Cathie  knew  she  was  being  asked  questions  by 
a  duchess.  It  is  idle  to  say  that  the  knowledge  did  not 
gratify  her,  but  she  would  have  been  even  more  grati- 
fied if  she  had  known  what  to  say.  She  wondered  also 
if  she  ought  to  bring  in  the  phrase  '  *  Your  Grace, ' '  just 
once,  to  show  that  she  knew.  But  she  felt  she  would 
say  it  awkwardly ;  it  was  better  left  out. 

11  Lucia  did  just  what  we  did,"  she  said.  "  Played 
tennis  sometimes." 

Mouse  drew  her  down  on  to  a  chair. 

1 '  It  is  too  interesting, ' '  she  said.  * '  She  just  leaped, 
didn't  she — sprang  to  the  top  of  everything?  Fancy 
coming  straight  out  of  that  sort  of " 

Mouse  paused  in  momentary  confusion.  It  was  only 
momentary. 

"  But  I  want  to  know  secret  history,"  she  said. 
"  Did  she  lie  perdue  and  pounce?  Did  she  make  her 
circle  there?  She  came  out  so  full-blown,  didn't  she? 
Like  the  beautiful  lunch  you  have  on  a  train  that  comes 
out  of — oh,  well,  out  of  a  little  sort  of  cupboard  behind 
the  door." 

The  language  was  still  rather  foreign,  but  Aunt 
Cathie  got  a  sudden  clearness  about  it.  She  became 
stiff,  but  not  at  al}  embarrassed. 

' '  Lucia  lived  our  quiet  life, ' '  she  said,  * '  in  our  very 
little  house.  She  always  was  very  full  of  spirits.  I 
think  she  did  not  find  it  disagreeable.  She  had  her 
little  duties  in  the  house.  We  led  a  very  simple  life, 
as  I  and  my  sister  lead  now." 

Maud  suddenly  turned  her  chair  round  towards  the 
speakers  and  laughed. 


320  THE    CLIMBER 

"  Ah,  well  done,  Aunt  Cathie,"  she  said. 

That  was  more  puzzling.  Cathie  was  not  conscious 
of  having  done  anything  well.  She  simply  knew  that 
at  one  moment  she  was  talking  to  a  duchess,  no  less, 
and  at  the  very  next  that  she  was  talking  to  a  slightly 
impertinent  person.  She  had  talked,  she  hoped,  quite 
suitably  to  each. 

Mouse  looked  at  her  a  moment,  with  her  chin  sup- 
ported on  her  hand. 

"  Ah,  how  grande  dame,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Lucia 
isn't,  you  see.  I  beg  your  pardon." 

She  got  up  from  her  chair,  made  a  little  gesture  of 
her  head  to  preface  her  leaving  the  room,  and — left  it. 

Aunt  Cathie  turned  a  wild  eye  to  the  moulded  ceiling. 

' '  Oh,  what  have  I  done !  ' '  she  asked.  '  *  Have  I  been 
very  rude  T  What  does  it  mean  1  And  she  called  me — 
what  was  it? — a  grande  dame.  That  must  have  been 
most  sarcastic.  But  I  don't  see  what  cause  I  had  given 
her  for  being  sarcastic. ' ' 

Maud  got  up. 

"  It  wasn't  in  the  least  sarcastic,"  she  said.  "  It 
was  as  straightforward  and  true  as  what  you  said  to 
her.  Now  let  us  go  out,  Aunt  Cathie. ' ' 

Cathie  gave  a  little  wail  of  dismay,  pressing  her  two 
long  bony  hands  together. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  done  something  dreadful,"  she 
said.  "  But  it's  all  so  strange.  One  hardly  feels  to 
know  what  they  are  all  talking  about." 

"  Dear  Aunt  Cathie,"  said  Maud,  "  you  are  not 
sorry  you  came,  are  you?  ' 

Cathie  turned  a  solemn  face  on  her. 

"  I  would 'nt  have  missed  it  for  two  rheumatic 
shoulders,"  she  said,  "  or  for  a  hundred  pounds." 


THE    CLIMBER  321 

Later  in  the  day  Cathie  again  found  herself  in  an 
empty  house.  She  had  had  a  long  stroll  with  Maud  in 
the  morning,  which  was  delightful,  and  they  had  lunch 
with  the  shooters  at  a  farm  some  mile  or  two  from  the 
house.  But  after  lunch  the  splendour  of  the  morning 
had  given  place  to  a  threatening  sky,  and  Maud  had 
recommended  her  to  go  home  in  her  motor,  instead  of 
walking  with  the  shooters  and  risking  a  wetting.  This 
she  had  done,  and,  arriving  back  about  four,  had  made 
her  way  to  the  library,  where  she  found  with  difficulty 
the  volumes  of  travels  and  photographs  which  Lucia 
had  spoken  of.  But  they  were  a  little  heavy  to  hold, 
and  she  herself  was  inclined  to  be  sleepy  after  her  walk 
in  the  morning,  her  swift  drive  home  in  air  which  was 
becoming  chill  with  imminent  rain,  and  with  the  warmth 
of  the  room  in  which  she  sat.  So  instead  of  following 
the  travellers  to  Japan,  she  dozed  in  her  chair,  and 
from  dozing  passed  into  sleep. 

The  room  where  she  sat  was  of  gallery-shape,  seventy 
feet  long,  and  broken  up  by  big  screens,  so  that  groups 
could  be  formed  round  the  piano  in  the  centre,  or  by 
either  of  the  fireplaces,  which  stood  at  the  two  ends  of 
the  place.  At  either  end  was  a  door,  the  one  communi- 
cating with  the  hall,  the  other  with  the  drawing-room. 
It  was  at  this  end,  comfortably  ensconced  behind  a 
screen,  that  Cathie  had  settled  herself. 

She  slept  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  and  woke  to  find 
that  it  was  growing  dark.  She  was  quite  rested  by  her 
nap,  but  sat  a  moment  longer  without  moving,  looking 
at  the  firelight  flickering  on  the  book-cases  and  panelled 
walls.  It  was  all  Lucia's,  too.  Then  a  little  distance 
off,  on  the  other  side  of  the  screen  which  sheltered  her, 


322  THE   CLIMBER 

she  heard  a  woman's  laugh.  Then  somebody,  a  man, 
spoke. 

"  Anything  diviner  than  the  crisis  about  the  Mayor's 
daughter  I  never  heard,"  he  said.  "  She  told  it  all 
over  again  at  lunch.  It  is  really  like  a  page  of 
'  Cranford.'  " 

The  voice  was  very  distinct:  it  was  Harry's.  She 
hardly  grasped  the  meaning  at  once. 

Then  a  woman  spoke. 

"  Dear  Lucia  is  quite  furious,"  she  said.  "  She  told 
me  she  did  all  she  could  to  put  her  off,  but  Edgar 
wouldn  't.  Oh,  and  she  tried  to  be  diplomatic  about  the 
puce  silk,  and  thought  she  had  succeeded.  Not  a  bit 
of  it,  though.  She  thought  of  telling  a  footman  to  spill 
something  on  it,  something  moist  and  green,  so  that 
it  could  not  appear  again.  How  heavenly  that  people 
should  have  aunts  like  that!  ' 

She  recognized  the  voice;  it  was  Mouse's! 

"  Yes,  most  heavenly,  but  it  is  important  that  other 
people  should  have  them,  and  not  oneself." 

"  Quite  so.  Harry,  I  must  get  the  story  of  the 
Mayor's  daughter  once  more,  and  I  do  hope  she  will 
wear  the  puce  again.  It  killed  Jiminy's  pink  quite, 
quite  dead.  The  pink  gave  one  sigh  and  never  moved 
again.  And  Raikes  tells  me  she  has  the  most  wonder- 
ful maid,  about  eighty,  who  appeared  in  the  room  last 
night  in  white  braces  and  an  apron  like  the  parlour- 
maid in  a  play.  And  the  bridge!  Didn't  you  hear! 
She  said  she  didn't  know  it,  but  would  like  to  learn. 
All  the  same,  I  was  rather  inquisitive  to  her  this  morn- 
ing, and  she  t  upped  '  and  answered  me  back. ' ' 

The  whole  thing  had  only  lasted  a  moment.  Then 
Cathie  got  quietly  up,  bitterly  blaming  herself,  poor 


THE   CLIMBER  323 

dear,  for  not  having  done  so  sooner.  The  door  into 
the  drawing-room  by  which  she  had  come  in  was  close 
to  her,  and  she  could  escape  through  that,  provided  she 
could  open  it  noiselessly  without  betraying  her  pres- 
ence. She  had  heard  more  than  enough :  she  could  not 
bear  to  hear  more. 

She  went  quickly  up  to  her  bedroom,  and  found  it 
comfortably  prepared  for  evening.  The  curtains  were 
drawn,  the  fire  prospered  in  the  grate,  and  she  sat  quite 
quiet  for  a  moment,  but  that  her  hands  trembled  a 
little.  Sentence  after  sentence  of  what  she  had  heard 
repeated  itself  in  her  brain.  They  were  going  to  get 
her  to  tell  the  tale  of  the  Mayor's  daughter  again; 
Lucia  was  furious ;  Lucia  had  not  wanted  her  to  come ; 
it  was  good  that  other  people  should  have  such  aunts ; 
Lucia  had  thought  of  getting  something  green  spilled 
on  her  dress.  It  was  not  that  the  dress  outshone  them*' 
all,  it  was  that  the  dress  was  ridiculous,  that  she  was 
ridiculous.  There  was  no  question  about  that. 

Cathie  did  not  cry  easily,  but  a  couple  of  small,  diffi- 
cult tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  had — in  spite 
of  the  strangeness — been  enjoying  herself  so  much :  it 
was  so  exciting  and  wonderful,  and,  as  she  had  said, 
she  would  not  have  missed  it  for  a  hundred  pounds. 
And  she  had  thought  that  she  and  the  dress  and  the 
story  had  been  such  a  success.  But  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take ;  Lucia  was  furious,  and  had  never  wanted  her  to 
come  at  all. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  One  thing  she  knew  was 
quite  impossible:  she  could  not  meet  Lucia  and  her 
guests  again.  Cathie  had  her  share  of  courage,  but  that 
ordeal  was  unfaceable,  she  could  not  consider  the  possi- 
bility of  it  Nor  could  she  even  tell  Lucia  she  must  go 


324  THE    CLIMBER 

away;  somehow  she  had  to  get  out  of  the  house  with- 
out Lucia 's  knowing  it.  Perhaps  she  might  write  a  note 
to  her,  which  should  be  delivered  after  she  had  gone. 
Then  gradually  a  plan  began  to  form  itself. 

Before  very  long  she  rang  her  bell  for  Arbuthnot. 
She,  too,  it  seemed,  was  as  curious  a  figure  in  the  room 
as  her  mistress  was  upstairs,  though  the  braces  and 
apron  were  quite  new.  She  appeared  in  them  now. 

"  Jane,"  said  Cathie,  "  I  find  I  must  get  home  at 
once.  I  am  going  to  put  on  my  things,  and  I  shall  walk 
to  the  station.  We  seemed  to  come  up  in  a  minute  or 
two  last  night :  it  cannot  be  very  far,  and  the  walk  will 
do  me  good.  Then  I  shall  send  a  cab  back  for  you  and 
the  luggage.  You  will  begin  packing  at  once,  and  when 
the  cab  comes  get  somebody  to  put  the  boxes  on  it. 
Whoever  it  is,  give  him  half  a  crown,  and  give  the  but- 
ler five  shillings  from  me,  saying  I  have  been  called 
home  suddenly.  And  give  him  the  note  I  am  going  to 
write,  and  ask  him  to  let  Lady  Brayton  have  it  an  hour 
after  you  have  gone. ' ' 

For  a  moment  Jane's  face  brightened;  that  was  on 
her  own  account.  Then  she  thought  of  her  mistress. 

11  It's  begun  to  rain,  miss,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  Aunt  Cathie. 

The  note  was  rather  hard  to  write.  Lucia  received 
it  when  she  went  up  to  dress,  for  dinner  was  earlier 
to-night  in  view  of  the  play.  It  ran  as  follows : 

1 '  MY  DEAEEST  LUCIA, 

"  I  think  I  made  a  mistake  in  coming  to  see  you 
when  you  had  a  big  party  with  you.  I  am  not  much  ac- 
customed to  big  parties,  and  it  made  me  feel  strange. 


THE   CLIMBER  325 

I  am  sure  they  all  thought  me  a  little  strange,  too,  and 
so  you  must  forgive  my  rudeness,  for  I  think  I  have 
done  the  best  I  could  in  going  home,  as  it  would  have 
been  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again.  Dearest  girl, 
it  was  such  a  pleasure  to  see  you  in  your  beautiful 
house  with  all  your  grand  guests.  Pray  forgive  me, 
and  make  some  excuse  for  me;  you  will  easily  think  of 
one.  And  you  promised,  do  you  remember,  to  come 
and  stay  with  us  sometimes,  and  I  shall  take  it  as  a 
sign  that  you  forgive  me,  for  I  do  not  think  I  could 
bear  to  talk  about  it. 

' '  The  sooner  you  come  and  the  longer  you  stop,  the 
better  Elizabeth  and  I  will  be  pleased. 
Your  affectionate  aunt, 

"  CATHIE." 

Lucia  hurried  to  Aunt  Cathie's  room.  The  fire  had 
burned  low,  drawers  were  open  and  empty.  She  rang1 
the  bell  furiously.  After  a  long  pause  (it  was  only 
Aunt  Cathie's  bell  that  rang,  not  her  own),  a  super- 
cilious housemaid  appeared.  She  ceased  to  be  super- 
cilious when  she  saw  Lucia. 

"  What  does  it  all  mean?  "  she  asked,  "  Where  is 
Miss  Grimsonf  Has  she  actually  left  the  house?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  lady." 

"  Well,  don't  stand  staring  like  that.  Go  and  find 
out  what  has  happened,  and  come  to  my  room." 

The  Lord  hardened  Lucia's  heart,  even  as  of  old  he 
hardened  Pharaoh's.  She  was  angry,  not  sorry,  and 
that  of  her  which  was  not  angry  felt  justified.  She  had 
known  all  along  that  it  would  be  the  greatest  mistake 
to  ask  her  to  the  house  with  a  big  party. 

Soon  the  same  housemaid,  scared  but  not  supercil- 


326  THE    CLIMBER 

ious,  gave  the  news.  She  had  left  nearly  two  hours 
ago. 

Lucia  felt  thoroughly  annoyed.  Edgar — it  was  one 
of  his  ridiculous  plans — had  announced  his  intention  of 
taking  Aunt  Cathie  in  to  dinner  to-night.  Pompously, 
so  said  Lucia  to  herself,  he  had  remarked  that  it  would 
please  her.  So  the  tables  must  be  arranged  all  over 
again.  That,  however,  she  did  not  propose  to  do 
herself. 

She  took  a  sheet  of  note-paper. 

"  Edgar  "  (she  wrote),  "  Aunt  Cathie  left  the  house 
two  hours  ago,  because  she  didn't  like  it,  as  far  as  I 
can  gather.  I  send  you  the  letter  she  left  to  be  given 
me.  I  had  arranged,  as  you  desired,  that  you  should 
take  her  in.  Will  you  please  settle  whom  you  will  take 
in  now,  and  make  all  necessary  alterations  in  the  tables. 

"  Yours, 

"  L." 


But  no  compassion,  no  sense  of  pathos  or  pity 
touched  her.  What  had  occasioned  this  she  did  not 
trouble  to  think.  She  felt,  indeed,  outraged  and  ill- 
used.  She  had  made  herself  charming  to  her  aunt,  and 
this  was  the  result.  However — at  this  moment  Lucia's 
eye  fell  on  the  emeralds  she  was  going  to  wear  that 
evening — however,  any  difficulty  about  '  Salome  '  was 
solved.  And  the  last  rehearsal  had  gone  excellently. 
Perhaps  it  was  all  for  the  best:  and  she  almost  re- 
pented of  the  tartness  of  the  note  she  had  sent  to  her 
husband.  She  dismissed  Aunt  Cathie  completely  from 
her  mind. 


THE   CLIMBER  327 

It  was  at  about  the  same  hour  that  a  cab  drew  up 
at  Fair  View  Cottage.  At  the  moment  from  within 
there  was  the  sound  of  the  Indian  gong,  which  an- 
nounced dinner.  The  door  was  opened,  and  Cathie  and 
Elizabeth  met  in  the  hall. 

"  Good-evening,  Elizabeth,"  said  Cathie.  "  I  have 
eome  back.  Please  don't  ask  me  about  it.  My  fault, 
nobody  else's.  I  have  got  rather  wet.  Shall  be  down 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Don't  wait  for  me." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

T  T  was  a  warm,  still  night  early  in  May,  and  the  elec- 
•••  trie  light  over  the  cabstand  at  the  end  of  the  square 
cast  on  to  the  pavement  and  dusty  surface  of  the  dry 
roadway  the  elbowed  and  angular  shadows  of  the  still 
leafless  plane-trees  in  unwavering  lines,  as  if  they  were 
made  of  some  dark  marble  cunningly  inlaid  into  a  grey 
ground.  The  dried  seed-balls  of  last  year  still  hung 
there,  and  the  air  was  only  just  sufficient  to  stir  them, 
so  that  they  oscillated  gently  to  and  fro,  swinging  from 
side  to  side  in  the  light  breeze  that  was  not  strong 
enough  to  agitate  the  twigs  and  branches  that  bore 
them.  But  in  other  respects,  apart  from  the  merely 
atmospheric,  two  houses  at  least  had  evening  parties 
going  on,  and  at  the  end  of  the  square  opposite  the 
cabstand  there  was  a  dance,  and  rows  of  carriages  and 
motors  were  employed  in  endless  procession  in  unload- 
ing their  occupants  opposite  the  strip  of  red  carpet 
that  ran  across  from  the  curbstone  of  the  pavement  to 
the  step  of  the  house.  The  drawing-room  window  of 
Number  36,  next  door  to  the  fortunate  house  with  the 
carriages  and  the  red  carpet,  was  open,  and  in  the 
window-seat  sflt  two  women.  The  talk  had  been  inti- 
mate; it  would  be  intimate  again;  but  for  the  moment 
Lucia  took  it  to  the  surface. 

"  Yes,  it  was  just  in  this  place,"  she  said,  "  and 
just  on  such  an  evening  four  years  ago,  it  must  be,  that 
we  sat  and  talked,  Maud.  And  the  Lewisohns  were  giv- 
ing a  dance  next  door,  as  they  are  to-night,  and  though 


THE   CLIMBER  329 

it  was  heavenly  to  talk  to  you,  I  wished  I  knew  the 
Lewisohns  and  that  they  would  ask  me  to  their  dances. 
And  now  that  woman  has  left  cards  on  me  three  times 
this  year,  and  I  have  returned  mine  punctually  next 
day.  Here  we  go,  up — up — up.  That's  me.  And  to- 
morrow I  go  down — down — down.  What  a  bore  it  is ! 
Of  course  it's  delightful  to  be  going  to  have  a  baby, 
at  least  everyone  tells  me  so,  but  why  coulda't  it  hap- 
pen in  February  or  March!  As  it  is  I  have  to  spend 
these  precious  weeks  in  the  country.  Edgar  really  is 
too  absurd.  He  makes — positively  makes — me  go 
down  to  Brayton  three  weeks  before  anything  can  pos- 
sibly happen  at  all,  because  he  says  that  if  I  stopped 
here  I  should  go  flying  about  and  do  things  that  are 
bad  for  me.  He  thinks  more  about  the  baby  than  me. 
I  told  him  so  yesterday,  and  he  was  hurt.  So  I  kissed 
him,  and  said  I  didn't  mean  it.  Oh,  what  a  liar  I  am." 

Maud  gave  a  long  sigh. 

"  Oh,  Lucia,  how  can  you  say  such  things!  "  she 
asked.  "  Fancy  minding  about  going  down  to  Bray- 
ton.  Why,  I  would  go  and  live  at  Clapham  Junction 
for  a  month  if  it  would  give  my  baby  an  ounce  more 
health,  an  ounce  of  better  chance.  What  a  strange 
romance  it  all  is !  " 

' '  You  and  me,  do  you  mean !  ' '  asked  Lucia. 

"  Yes.  We've  always  gone  parallel,  haven't  we! 
Up  at  Girton  first  of  all ;  then  we  fell  in  love — at  least 
I  did  a  little  and  you  a  great  deal — with  the  same  man. 
And  now,  within  a  few  weeks  of  each  other,  less  per- 
haps, we  shall  give  our  husbands  our  first-born  child. 
I  do  want  a  boy  so  much.  Do  all  mothers,  do  you 
think!  " 

"  I  imagine  so,"  said  Lucia.    "  Fancy  what  a  nui- 


330  THE   CLIMBEE 

sance  a  girl  would  be  in  eighteen  years!  How  my 
daughter  will  hate  me,  if  it  is  a  daughter.  Because  I 
shall  still  be  going  to  balls,  and  giving  them,  and  mak- 
ing everybody  run  after  me,  and  I  shall  be  so  jealous 
of  her,  because  she's  younger.  Oh,  I'm  not  nice,  I 
know  that.  But  it's  me,  thank  God.  If  she  falls  in 
love  with  some  very  attractive  young  man,  I  know  I 
shall  cut  .her  out,  and  take  him  for  a  devoted  slave, 
Number  whatever  it  happens  to  be. ' ' 

"  Oh,  Lucia,  don't  talk  such  nonsense!  "  said  Maud. 

"  Maud,  you're  a  darling,"  said  Lucia,  "  and  it's 
dear  of  you  always  to  tell  me  I  am  talking  nonsense 
just  when  I  am  saying  the  things  that  are  most  essen- 
tially myself.  They  are  very  sensible;  they  are  not 
nonsense.  And,  as  I  said  before,  I'm  not  filled  with 
rapture  at  the  thought  of  having  a  child.  I'm  not,  I'm 
not.  And  think  of  all  the  waste  of  time  that  will  never 
come  again.  How  much  nicer  if  one  was  a  hen,  and 
just  laid  an  egg,  and  got  another  hen  to  sit  on  it,  or 
put  it  in  a  Turkish  bath,  incubator — whatever  they  call 
it.  I  do  think  it  would  be  an  advantage.  And  I  sup- 
pose you  say  that's  nonsense  too." 

Maud  laughed. 

"  I  don't  think  there. is  any  need,"  she  said.  "  Oh, 
I  remember  so  well  when  we  sat  here,  you  and  I,  four 
years  ago,  you  talked  the  most  awful  nonsense. 
You  were  just  making  the  most  tremendous 
discoveries ' ' 

"  I  always  am,"  put  in  Lucia. 

"  But  they  were  more  tremendous  than  usual  that 
night.  You  discovered  that  you  didn't  like  men,  and 
that  you  didn  't  want  to  marry,  but  that  you  wouldn  't 
mind  having  some  nice  old  man  to  be  kind  to  you  and 


THE    CLIMBER  331 

kiss  you.  Immediately  after  which  you  fell  head  over 
ears  in  love  with  Edgar.  My  gracious !  how  you  have 
changed  since  then,  and  how  I  have." 

Lucia  at  that  moment  did  not  want  to  talk  exclusively 
about  herself.  Maud's  remark  that  immediately  after- 
wards she  had  fallen  in  love  with  Edgar  was  one  that 
had  better  be  let  go  by. 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  changed  in  the  least,"  she 
said.  "  You  are  just  what  you  always  were — kind, 
and  quiet  and  wise." 

Maud  gave  a  little  sigh,  half  closing  her  eyes  a  mo- 
ment as  the  head  lights  of  a  motor  coming  up  the  road 
outside  flared  into  them. 

"  But  I  feel  absolutely  different,"  she  said.  "  I 
should  not  know  myself  for  the  same  person.  I  look 
back  on  myself  then  as — as  a  girl  lying  fast  asleep,  not 
even  dreaming." 

"  Ah,  that  may  be,"  said  Lucia,  "  all  girls  are 
asleep,  I  think.  Then  somebody  comes  and  pinches 
them,  and  they  awake.  But  they  are  the  same  girls. 
I  was  asleep,  too,  but  I  used  to  dream  a  good  deal. 
And  when  I  woke  up  my  dream  came  true. ' ' 

Lucia  paused  a  moment ;  she  felt  a  certain  undertow 
going  on  in  her  mind,  some  submerged  current  of  re- 
gret, of  disappointment.  This  was  very  unusual  to 
her ;  she  had  not  generally  either  leisure  or  inclination 
for  such  thoughts. 

"  But  I'm  not  sure  that  the  dreams  were  not  even 
more  vivid  than  the  reality,"  she  said,  "  and  they  cer- 
tainly had  that  fiery,  absorbing  quality  which  is  char- 
acteristic of  dreams.  Dreaming,  you  have  no  before 
or  after ;  it  is  a  series  of  burning  moments.  But  reality 
— there  is  so  much  repetition  about  it.  The  burning 


332  THE    CLIMBER 

moment  burns  itself  out,  and  you  have  to  clear  up 
the  ashes.  In  dreams  there  are  no  ashes.  Dear  me, 
I  seldom  think  of  disagreeable  things.  I  wonder  if  I 
have  eaten  anything  that  has  disagreed  with  me." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Maud.  "Do  go  on;  I'm 
disagreeing  with  every  word  you  say. ' ' 

"  That's  a  comfort.  Whenever  people  agree  with 
me  it  is  probably  because  I  have  said  something  hope- 
lessly commonplace.  Indeed  what  I'm  saying  now  is. 
Surely  the  anticipation  of  a  pleasant  thing  is  keener 
than  its  fulfilment.  One  enjoys  the  moment  the  lights 
go  down  at  '  Tristan,'  before  the  overture,  more  than 
the  thing  itself.  Tread  softly — what  idiot  said  that — 
tread  softly,  because  you  tread  on  my  dreams !  Such 
nonsense;  dreams  are  more  durable  than  oilcloth. 
Tread  softly,  because  you  tread  on  the  facts  of  life, 
would  be  a  far  more  sensible  command.  The  facts  of 
life  are  the  things  that  go  into  holes,  that  crack  and 
let  you  through  into  ice-cold  water.  Dreams  bear  all 
right;  life  doesn't." 

Lucia  laughed  softly. 

"  Decidedly  I  must  have  eaten  something  to  disagree 
with  me,"  she  said;  "  but  I'm  getting^id  of  it  emo- 
tionally, am  I  not?  Oh,  I'm  not  at  loggerheads  with 
life,  I'm  only  at  little  loggerheads  with  myself.  Years 
ago  I  planned  to  get  everything.  Well,  in  a  sense  I 
have  got  everything.  I  meant  to  climb  out  of  that  way- 
side ditch  at  Brixham,  to  rise  out  like  the  larva  of  a 
dragon-fly,  to  spread  my  wings,  to  climb,  to  soar.  And, 
indeed,  I've  got  everything  I  can  think  of.  I  am  at  the 
top,  you  know;  it  is  no  use  denying  it.  And  it  isn't  a 
mere  smart  top;  we  think,  we  work,  we  are  tremen- 
dously alive.  But  what  next  ?  Oh,  Maud,  I  must  think 


THE   CLIMBER  333 

of  something  next.  I've  got  to  go  much  higher  than 
this.  But — this,  to  be  exact,  is  what  I  am  afraid  of — 
I  am  afraid  that  wherever  you  get  to  appears  to  be 
dead  level.  I  really  must  take  out  my  spyglass  and  find 
another  mountain  peak.  Now  you  say  you  disagree — 
disagree. ' ' 

"  But  easily,  eagerly,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you  see, 
Lucia,  you  are  only  dissatisfied  with  quite  the  minor 
things  of  life.  That  I  can  understand  is  possible, 
though  I  don't  realize  it  yet.  But  when  love  is  yours, 
when,  to  crown  it,  you  and  I  are  going  to  bear  children 
to  the  men  we  love,  how  is  it  possible  not  to  be  far 
more  than  content,  not  to  be  divinely  unsatisfied?  That 
happiness,  that  divine  uncontent,  it  seems  to  me,  must 
always  rise  from  height  to  height.  There  is  no  top  to 
it;  it  joins  straight  on  to  the  infinite." 

Lucia  laughed  with  a  sudden  harshness  of  sound. 

"  Ah,  mine  does  not,"  she  said,  "  there  is  a  consider- 
able gap." 

She  rose  quickly,  giving  herself  a  little  shake. 

"  And  I  am  using  all  these  words  to  express  what 
can  be  expressed  in  half  a  dozen,"  she  said.  "  It's  a 
little  fit  of  the  blues  that  I've  got.  Really,  one  makes 
much  ado  about  nothing;  that  is  the  worst  of  having 
a  mind  that  insists  on  working.  'Arry  and  'Arriet — 
the  mental  ones — never  wonder  and  guess  about  things. 
If  they  feel  depressed  they  say  they've  got  the  hump, 
and  leave  it  at  that.  I  leave  it  at  that,  and  change  the 
subject  with  startling  suddenness.  Where's  Chubby? 
I  really  came  here  to  see  him  and  not  you,  and  he  isn't 
here.  Do  you  allow  him  to  stop  out  just  as  late  as  he 
chooses?  I  shouldn't.  Chubby  has  a  charm  that  might 
lead  him  and  others  into  temptations." 


334  THE   CLIMBER 

Maud  got  up  and  followed  Lucia  into  the  room. 

"  Yes,  I  let  him  stop  out  just  as  late  as  he  chooses," 
she  said.  "  Fancy  not  doing  so!  " 

Lucia  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in  a  fit  of 
restlessness.  Here  she  stopped  for  a  moment,  looking 
rather  keenly  at  her  friend,  then  she  dropped  her  eyes 
and  continued  her  pacing. 

"  Oh,  I've  caught  it  from  Edgar,"  she  said.  "  He 
always  quarter-decks  if  he  has  anything  on  his  mind. 
But  as  long  as  you  catch  your  husband's  tricks  it's  all 
right,  isn't  it?  Chubby:  yes.  Oh,  Maud,  what  ship- 
wrecks men  can  make  of  women's  lives.  What  brutes 
men  are !  And  the  train  of  thought  that  suggests  this 
seems  to  be  Chubby.  Poor  Chubby !  Do  tell  him  that 
the  mention  of  his  name  instantly  made  me  think  of 
domestic  shipwreck. ' ' 

A  serene  smile  spread  over  Maud's  face. 

"  Yes,  I  certainly  will,"  she  said.  "  That's  the  kind 
of  childish  joke  that  amuses  Chubby  and  me.  But 
again  I  disagree  with  you.  Nobody  can  make  ship- 
wreck of  your  life.  If  a  man  behaves  disgustingly,  and 
you  don 't  love  him,  it  is  no  shipwreck ;  you  are  sorry ; 
it  is  very  sad — but,  after  all,  you  don't  love  him.  And 
if — if  the  man  you  loved  behaved  like  that,  I  don't  see 
that  even  that,  Lucia,  could  touch  your  love.  Love  is 
so  much  bigger  than  anything  a  person  can  do." 

Maud  paused  a  moment,  lit  by  her  own  phrase. 

"  Yes,  just  that,"  she  said.  "  Deeds,  actions  can- 
not touch  it.  At  least,  so  I  think  and  believe.  God  for- 
bid it  should  ever  be  tested. ' ' 

Lucia  had  stopped  again  when  Maud  said  "  nobody 
can  make  shipwreck  of  your  life."  And  as  Maud  went 
on  she  stood  there  very  still.  It  seemed  that  she  al- 


THE   CLIMBER  335 

most  stopped  breathing,  for  the  gold  sequins  that  were 
sewn  in  an  Oriental  pattern  on  to  the  bodice  of  her 
gown  no  longer  twinkled  and  scintillated,  as  with  the 
stir  of  her  rising  and  falling  bosom  the  light  caught 
now  one  and  now  another.  She  had  come  here  from 
the  Opera  and  wore  many  jewels;  but  they  too,  both  the 
tiara  on  her  head  and  the  three  rows  of  diamonds  round 
her  neck,  were  still  also.  The  lights  in  the  stones 
winked  and  shifted  no  longer;  they  blazed  steadily. 
Then,  though  she  still  stood  without  movement  of  foot, 
some  tremor  must  have  held  and  shaken  her,  for  the 
lights  were  a  galaxy  of  shifting  colour.  Then  she 
moved,  and  moved  quickly  to  where  Maud  stood. 

"  Ah,  that  is  big,  that  is  fine!  "  she  said.  "  God 
grant  it  may  never,  as  you  say,  be  put  to  proof.  I  must 
go,  Maud.  It  is  late.  Chubby  would  be  an  utter  brute 
if  he  did  not  love  you.  Tell  him  so,  also,  from  me. ' ' 

Then  she  completely  shook  off  that  which  had  caused 
her  moment  of  absolute  stillness,  and  had  broken  it 
again  with  that  sudden  tremor. 

"  And  another  coincidence,"  she  said.  "  Again  I 
go  down  into  the  country  to-morrow,  just  as  I  did  four 
years  ago,  when  we  talked  here.  But  that  is  the  end 
of  the  chain.  Otherwise  I  should  have  to  go  up  to  my 
bedroom  and  have  my  hair  brushed  out  by  you,  which 
wouldn't  do,  as  I  imagine  that  room  is  Chubby 's  dress- 
ing-room. Oh,  and  in  an  expansive  moment,  a  week 
ago,  I  asked  Aunt  Cathie  to  come  and  stay  at  Brayton 
for  the  momentous  days.  The  old  darling  is  rather 
lonely,  I  think,  since  Aunt  Elizabeth's  death.  Edgar 
suggested  it.  I  hope  it  will  be  a  greater  success  than 
the  occasion  on  which  he  last  suggested  Aunt  Cathie 
should  stay  with  us." 


336  THE   CLIMBER 

Maud  winced. 

"  Oh,  don't,"  she  said;  "  it  was  so  dreadful  and  so 
hopeless." 

Lucia  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  soft  reproach.  At 
least,  there  was  the  identical  expression  in  her  eyes 
which  is  generally  attributed  to  soft  reproach. 

11  You  still  think  it  was  partly  my  fault,  you  know," 
she  said.  ' '  How  could  I  help  Mouse  and  Harry  talking 
about  her  ?  It  must  have  been  that.  I  had  been  charm- 
ing to  her.  Well,  I  shall  be  again.  Good-night, 
dearest." 

Maud  went  out  with  Lucia  on  to  the  landing  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  Something,  perhaps,  of  Lucia's  blues 
had  infected  her,  for,  though  not  naturally  imaginative, , 
she  was  very  conscious,  as  she  stood  there,  watching 
the  shining,  graceful  figure  of  the  friend  she  loved, 
stepping  downstairs,  of  a  deep,  dim  uneasiness,  not 
exactly  anxiety,  not  exactly  fear,  but  of  the  fiery 
quality  which  Lucia  had  said  was  characteristic  of 
dreams.  Step  by  step  she  descended;  then,  just  before 
the  stair-rail  hid  her,  she  looked  up  and  back. 

"  It  wasn't  my  fault,  darling,"  she  said.  "  Good- 
night." 

Maud  stood  there  a  moment  after  Lucia  had  passed 
out  of  sight.  Then  she  heard  the  opening  of  the  door, 
and  Lucia's  voice  spoke.  She  could  not  hear  the 
words;  probably  she  said  good-night  to  the  footman, 
for  she  was  always  charming  with  servants.  Certainly 
a  man's  voice  answered  her,  also  indistinguishable. 
Then  the  motor  throbbed  and  whirred  outside,  and 
then  came  the  thud  of  the  front  door. 

It  was  already  late,  but  she  felt  no  desire  for  sleep, 


THE   CLIMBER  337 

and  went  back  into  the  window- seat  where  she  had 
sat  with  Lucia.  Some  faint  fragrance,  some  reminis- 
cence of  Lucia,  still  lingered  there,  a  fallen  petal,  per- 
haps, of  flowers  she  had  worn,  though  it  scarcely 
needed  that  to  send  her  thoughts  coming  back  to  her. 
Somehow,  when  Lucia  was  with  her,  she  was  incapable 
of  coming  to  conclusions  about  her;  all  judgment,  all 
possible  criticism,  all  appreciation  even,  was  dazzled  by 
her  presence.  If  Lucia  gave  vent,  as  she  sometimes 
did,  to  an  abominable  sentiment,  Maud  quite  honestly 
labelled  it  as  nonsense.  But  now,  as  sometimes  before, 
when  Lucia  had  gone,  she  could  look  at  her,  as  through 
a  smoked  glass,  and  regard  steadily  what  was  uncriti- 
cizable  when  she  was  there. 

A  hundred  times  during  this  last  year  Maud  had 
checked  herself  from  doing  this,  but  now  and  then 
Lucia  so  puzzled  her  that  it  was  necessary  to  sit  down 
and  think,  after  she  had  gone,  what  she  meant.  One 
of  the  things,  for  instance,  which  she  had  thought  about 
before  to-night  was  that  disastrous  visit,  and  more 
disastrous  disappearance,  of  Aunt  Cathie  from  Bray- 
ton.  Maud  could  be  convinced,  on  this  point ;  she  knew 
that  if  Lucia  had  been  really  glad  to  see  her,  Aunt 
Cathie  would  have  been  blissfully  happy — absurd,  per- 
haps, because  it  was  the  old  darling's  nature  to  be  ab- 
surd, but  happy.  Whatever  she  might  or  might  not 
have  overheard — it  was  known  that  Mouse  and  Harry 
had  discussed  her  on  that  wet  afternoon,  and  the  door 
into  the  drawing-room  from  the  library  had  inexplic- 
ably opened  and  shut — Aunt  Cathie  would  never  have 
fled  the  house  had  she  felt  that  her  hostess  welcomed 
her,  was  glad  to  have  her  there.  In  self-justification 
Lucia  pointed  out  that  she  had  sat  with  her  the  evening 


338  THE   CLIMBER 

before  in  her  room,  had  said  not  a  word  to  her  on  the 
subject  of  the  puce  dress,  had  warned  her  ever  so 
gently  on  the  subject  of  "  Salome,"  but  Maud's  in- 
stinct still  shook  its  head  to  those  arguments. 

And  (this  question  about  Aunt  Cathie  was  an  affair 
of  detail,  though  the  detail  was  consistent  with  the 
main  idea)  Lucia  seemed  to  Maud  to  haye  coarsened 
somehow  during  this  last  year  or  two.  She  had  be- 
come hard,  she  had  lost  compassion,  she  had  grown 
tolerant  of,  even  curious  about,  things  that  were  not 
worth  study,  or,  if  studied,  only  merited  intolerance, 
were  only  worth  knowing  in  order  to  condemn  them 
without  qualification.  It  was  not  so  long  ago  that  they 
had  had  what  to  Maud  was  a  rather  agitating  talk  on 
the  subject.  Lucia  had  railed,  with  some  bitterness, 
about  the  double  law,  the  law  that  allowed  a  man  so 
much  license  and  a  woman  so  little.  She  had  been  ad- 
vocate on  behalf  of  greater  indulgence  for  the  woman. 
She  spoke  theoretically,  of  course,  but  her  scheme  of 
justice  was  that  of  completer  liberty.  In  the  eye  of  the 
law,  no  less  than  in  the  conventional  judgment  of  so- 
ciety, a  man  might  do  really  what  he  pleased,  so  long  as 
he  was  not  cruel  to  his  wife,  and  paid  her  certain  at- 
tentions ;  while  a  woman  was  a  chattel,  a  dog  led  by  a 
string,  a  bond-slave.  It  was  from  the  social  verdict 
particularly  that  Lucia  rebelled,  the  legal  one  did  not 
matter  so  much,  for,  so  she  said,  if  you  are  fool  enough 
to  be  detected  you  must  suffer  for  your  folly.  But  a 
man,  socially  speaking,  could  play  about  as  he  chose, 
and  be  socially  untarnished,  whereas  a  woman  could 
never  play  at  all. 

About  this  Maud's  verdict  was  that  Lucia  talked 
nonsense ;  the  trouble  was  that  she  talked  so  much  non- 


THE   CLIMBER  339 

sense,  and  always  said  that  it  was  when  she  was  essen- 
tially herself  that  the  charge  of  nonsense  was  brought 
against  her,  in  mitigation  no  doubt  of  what  should 
have  been  her  sentence,  but  mistakenly.  She  had  said 
it  so  often  that  Maud  wondered  whether  there  was 
some  truth  in  it.  But  she  could  not  bear  to  think  that 
Lucia  meant  all  she  said.  It  had  always  been  her  way 
to  say  more  than  she  meant ;  she  felt  intensely ;  she  felt 
subtly,  too,  and  announced  with  banner  and  trumpets 
the  opening  of  some  tiny  little  cul-de-sac  that  led  no- 
where and  was  not  meant  for  human  passage,  as  if  it 
had  been  some  regal  thoroughfare — a  royal  road  for 
all  mankind  to  traverse. 

Maud  went  back  over  what  she  had  said  to-night. 
Her  baby  that  was  coming;  what  ludicrous  things  she 
had  said  about  that.  By  her  own  account  she  was  al- 
most sorry  that  this  was  to  be;  she  could  in  any  case 
weigh  the  disadvantage  of  having  a  baby  in  June  with 
the  greater  convenience  of  lying  by  in  February  or 
March.  It  was  like — it  was  like  grumbling  that  you 
had  received  a  bad  half-penny  in  your  change  for  a 
sixpence,  when  a  cheque  of  a  million  pounds,  certainly 
negotiable,  had  been  just  given  you.  How  could  she 
weigh  this  infinitesimal  thing  in  scales  where  the  in- 
finite was  piled! 

Madge,  too ;  she  talked  of  men  making  shipwreck  of 
the  lives  of  women,  instancing  her.  But  what  had  been 
the  truth  of  that  story  1  Had  not  Madge  for  years  con- 
soled herself  for  the  lack  of  that  which  she  did  not 
trouble  to  look  for  at  home?  "Was  it  not  notorious  that 

Madge And  yet  Lucia  talked  of  there  being  one 

social  law  for  the  man,  another  for  the  woman!  Of 
course  Madge  was  Lucia's  greatest  friend;  she  was 


340  THECLIMBEE 

right,  immensely  right,  to  ignore  all  that  was  said  about 
her,  and  sympathize  only  with  her  in  the  public  crash 
that  had  resounded  through  London.  But  was  Lucia 
so  utterly  ignorant,  so  utterly  innocent,  as  not  to  know 
what  everybody  really  knew  about  Madge? 

Yet — here  again  the  remembrance  of  Lucia  dazzled 
her — it  was  glorious  of  Lucia  to  utterly  shut  her  ears 
to  it  all.  She  had  said  it  did  not  concern  her ;  she  had 
had  a  really  serious  disagreement  with  Edgar  on  the 
subject.  She  had  refused  to  hear  things  that  were 
dropped  from  the  garret  into  the  gutter,  even  though 
they  fell  on  the  heads  not  of  those  who  sat  in  the  gutter, 
but  were  leaning  out  of  the  choicest  windows  on  the 
first  floor.  Oh,  it  was  a  fine  attitude ;  but — but  was  it 
an  attitude? 

Maud's  thought  had  rather  run  away  with  her,  and 
when  thoughts  run  away  with  their  owner,  he  often 
does  not  quite  realize  how  far  they  have  borne  him. 
But  here  she  looked  round,  so  to  speak,  and  saw  a  very 
unfamiliar  landscape,  a  spot  from  which  Lucia  was  ban- 
ished. If  these  thoughts  were  true,  she  could  have  no 
abiding  place  here  in  Maud's  heart,  and  that  was  in- 
conceivable. It  was  inconceivable,  not  only  because 
Maud  could  not  imagine  it  happening,  but  because  from 
the  quality  of  the  love  she  bore  Lucia  she  knew  that 
her  friend  could  not,  in  the  immutable  nature  of  things, 
be  cut  off  from  her.  Whatever  Lucia  thought,  she  must 
think  it  in  Maud's  heart.  That  was  what  love  meant; 
it  implied  the  negation  of  a  separate  existence. 

How  lucky  she  was!  Many,  how  many,  passed 
through  life  separate  from  all  their  fellows,  all  those 
who  have  never  got  into  the  heart  of  the  world,  who, 
though  they  may  have  married,  happily,  even,  have 


THE   CLIMBER  341 

never  penetrated  to  the  gospel  of  unity  with  another, 
who  have  always  known,  always  wondered,  at  the  mo- 
ments of  isolation  that  they  sometimes  experience. 
She  was  luckier ;  at  this  moment  she  could  throw  away 
all  her  criticism  of  Lucia,  deep-felt  though  it  had  been, 
and  go  deeper  yet.  She  had  but  wondered,  and  criti- 
cized with  her  mind ;  her  love  lay  unvexed  still,  unper- 
turbed, imperturbable. 

She  was  luckier  still;  though  it  seemed  that  there 
could  be  nothing  better  to  be  desired  or  to  be  had  than 
her  love  for  Lucia,  there  was  something  better  which 
she  both  desired  and  had.  And  she  got  up,  moved  by 
some  tremor  of  an  inner  life  within  her.  It  was  her  life 
that  faintly  stirred;  it  was  Charlie's  also. 

The  clock  on  the  stairs  chimed  twice,  surely  a  mis- 
take. But  the  mistake  was  endorsed  by  another  clock 
in  the  room.  How  late  he  was,  and  how  right  to  be  late 
if  he  chose.  For  her,  anyhow,  it  was  bedtime.  She  wel- 
comed that.  It  implied  the  awakening  to  another  day — 
a  day  nearer. 

Maud  must  have  sat  thinking  for  close  on  an  hour, 
for  it  was  scarcely  past  one  when  Lucia  went  down- 
stairs. Her  motor,  which  had  brought  her  from  the 
Opera,  was  waiting,  the  front  door  had  already  been 
opened,  and  she  was  just  stepping  into  the  porch  when 
she  met  a  man  on  the  doorstep,  who  was  coming  in. 

' '  Oh,  Chubby, ' '  she  said, ' '  see  me  home.  I  go  away 
to-morrow. ' ' 

"  I'll  see  you  anywhere,"  said  Chubby. 

The  motor  whirred  and  buzzed,  and  the  front  door  of 
the  house  was  shut  again  with  a  soft  thud.  The  win- 
dows of  the  car  were  shut.  Lucia  put  the  one  next  her 
down. 


342  THE   CLIMBER 

"  Air,  air,"  she  said.  "  I  want  air.  There  isn't 
enough  air.  I  should  have  made  lots  more  if  I  had  had 
the  making  of  the  whole  thing.  Oh,  Charlie,  she  is  a 
pearl — a  pearl.  Do — do  be  worthy  of  her." 

Lucia  felt  immensely  exalted  at  that  moment.  She 
felt  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  say,  a  loyal  thing  to  say,  one 
that  should  certainly  rouse  his  best  feelings,  his  sense 
of  duty,  his  love  for  his  wife,  his  realization,  if  all  was 
told,  of  her  own  nobility.  The  fact  that  fifteen  seconds 
ago  she  had  asked  him  to  see  her  home  did  not  trouble 
her  in  the  least.  It  was  a  perfectly  natural  thing  to  do. 
Had  Maud  been  on  the  door-step,  she  would  have  added 
her  vote;  she  would  certainly  have  wished  Charlie  to 
go.  But  she  had  not  said  originally,  when  she  met  him 
on  the  doorstep,  "  She  is  a  pearl,  Charlie;  good-night." 
She  had  asked  him  to  see  her  home,  and  said  it  en  route. 
She  knew  the  distinction  herself,  but  she  cut  it ;  she  re- 
fused to  recognize  it. 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  pearl,"  said  Charlie.  "  I  have  always 
known  it.  And — and  it  was  that,  was  it  not,  that  made 
our  intimacy?  We  made  friends  through  her " 

The  motor  checked  at  a  corner,  bubbled  to  itself,  and 
licked  its  lips  again. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  he. 

Lucia's  heart  suddenly  leaped  within  her.  Her  own 
side  of  the  affair  she  knew  thoroughly,  but  till  this  mo- 
ment she  had  never  really  known  what  it  meant  to  him. 
They  had  been  intimate,  in  a  purely  innocent  sense,  be- 
ing brought  often  and  much  together,  each  conjectur- 
ing in  the  other  something  of  the  nameless  positive,  the 
nameless  complement,  that  all  men  and  women  seek. 
Whether  he  had  actually  found  it  or  not  she  did  not 
know.  But  when  he  said,  "  Oh,  my  God,"  she  knew. 


THE   CLIMBER  343 

What  would  be  the  practical  outcome  she  did  not  think ; 
she  knew  nothing  except  that  his  interjection  meant 
that  he  had  found.  There  was  the  world  of  regret,  of 
duty,  of  affection,  that  yelped  behind  it,  but  the  true 
cry,  tragic  though  it  was,  rose  up  through  it.  And  even 
in  this  moment,  which  she  knew  to  be  supreme  in  its 
sensual  sort,  she  could  not  be  honest.  Yet  she  could 
still  mend  matters,  she  could  still  say,  since  they  pulled 
up  at  this  moment  at  Prince's  Gate,  "  Thanks  so  much, 
Charlie,  for  your  escort;  they  will  take  you  back  of 
course.  Good-night." 

Instead  she  went  a  step  further.  She  said  "  Oh, 
come  in  for  ten  minutes.  The  motor  will  wait  and  take 
you  back." 

That,  the  motor  waiting,  was  her  semblance  of  an  an- 
chor. She  did  not  mean  to  drift ;  the  chauffeur  would 
be  waiting. 

She  was  on  the  near  side  of  the  car,  and  paused  on 
the  pavement  for  him  to  follow.  He  followed,  but  for 
a  step  only. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  back  at  once,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  I 
shall  be  keeping  Maud  up." 

Lucia  turned  round.  The  lights  stirred  again  in  her 
necklace  and  her  tiara ;  they  winked  in  the  sequins  and 
they  blazed  in  her  eyes.  He  had  resisted ;  therefore  she 
would  fight  that  resistance.  It  was  not  tolerable  that 
he  should  resist  her.  Besides,  she  knew  well  in  what 
spirit  his  resistance  was  made — the  spirit  of  loyalty  to 
Maud,  fighting  desperately.  That  fed  her  vanity,  and 
ministered  to  her  insatiable  desire  of  conquest.  And 
even  in  the  same  moment  as  she  knew  that  she  told 
herself,  so  amazing  was  her  capacity  for  self-deception, 
that  his  resistance  was  insulting  to  herself.  Surely 


344  THE   CLIMBER 

with  the  wife  of  his  cousin,  with  the  greatest  friend  of 
his  own  wife,  such  scruples  were  as  absurd  as  they  were 
unjustifiable.  It  might  be  loyalty  to  his  wife,  for  fear 
of  some  distant  incredible  conclusion  that  prompted  re- 
sistance, but  that  same  resistance  was  not  loyal  to 
Lucia. 

"  Oh,  as  you  please,"  she  said.  "  But  we  go  into 
the  country  to-morrow,  and  shan't  be  back  for  ages. 
You  might  just  talk  to  Edgar  and  me  for  five  minutes." 

Now  Charlie  believed  that  Edgar  had  left  town  that 
morning.  He  deliberately  chose  to  forget  that.  He 
must  indeed  be  mistaken  after  what  Lucia  had  said. 
He  leaped  at  it. 

"  Ah,  yes.    I  want  to  see  Edgar,"  he  said. 

Lucia  smiled  at  him. 

"  You  are  too  humiliating,"  she  said.  "  You  will 
come  in  to  see  Edgar,  but  not  to  see  me.  However, 
come  in  on  any  terms.  Yes,  wait,  please, ' '  she  added  to 
the  chauffeur.  "  Mr.  Lindsay  will  drive  back  in  ten 
minutes." 

She  was  radiant ;  she  had  won ;  and  as  he  came  into 
the  hall  she  looked  at  him,  just  shaking  her  head  at  him. 

"  You  silly  boy,"  she  said,  "  I  wanted  you  just  to 
keep  me  company  while  I  ate  one  mouthful  of  supper, 
and  you  make  all  this  fuss.  Go  into  the  dining-room, 
and — and  talk  to  Edgar.  I  will  follow  you  in  a  mo- 
ment; I  must  just  look  at  these  telegrams.  I  never 
come  home  without  finding  telegrams." 

The  room  was  empty,  but  a  small  table  was  laid  for 
two,  and  a  servant  was  just  bringing  in  a  tray  of  sup- 
per. Lucia  hated  letting  herself  into  a  dark  house,  and 
having  to  fumble  for  lights  and  food,  and  a  couple  of 
weary  footmen  had  always  to  be  up  at  whatever  hour 


THE   CLIMBER  345 

she  returned.    Then  Charlie  heard  a  peal  of  laughter 
from  the  hall,  and  Lucia  entered,  waving  a  telegram. 

"  Chubby,  it's  too  funny,"  she  said.  "  You  will 
think  me  such  a  liar.  But  whom  do  you  suppose  this 
telegram  is  from?  It's  from  Edgar;  he's  down  at 
Brayton.  He  went  to-day.  I  quite  forgot.  Don't  you 
believe  me?  Look — there  are  places  for  two." 

Charlie  pulled  himself  together;  he  knew,  poor  soul, 
far  too  well  how  hopelessly  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Lucia,  but  it  would  be  doing  her  a  monstrous  injustice 
to  suppose  that  she  had  any  suspicion  of  it.  Had  she 
known,  she  would  never  have  asked  him  to  come  in  like 
this,  except  in  the  belief  that  Edgar  was  there.  She 
had  spent  all  the  evening,  too,  with  his  wife.  She  could 
not  know.  Yet  words  she  had  said,  phrases  she  had 
used,  came  back  to  him.  Only  this  evening  she  had  told 
him  what  a  pearl  Maud  was :  that  he  must  be  worthy  of 
her.  To  his  secret  sense  that  had  so  tremendous  a 
meaning  that  it  seemed  incredible  that  to  Lucia  it 
should  mean  only  just  that  which  it  said,  that  it  should 
but  bear  its  obvious  significance.  But  to  doubt  that 
was  to  doubt  her,  and  for  the  present,  anyhow,  he  laid 
it  all  aside. 

"  Well,  his  place  will  do  nicely  for  me  instead,"  he 
said.  "  Otherwise,  if  he  had  been  here,  I  should  have 
insisted  on  another  being  laid.  And  you're  really  off 
to-morrow?  London  will  be  dull,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  it  will,"  said  she.  "  I  hate  going 
away  from  a  place  and  feeling  that  everybody  gets  on 
excellently  without  me.  I  am  glad  you  will  be  dull: 
Mouse  said  she  would  be  dull,  too,  which  is  satisfactory. 
Oh, '  Tristan  '  was  quite  splendid  to-night.  How  big  it 


346  THE   CLIMBER 

all  is!  And  how  very  small  most  people  look — small 
and  mean  like  kitchenmaids,  when  they  are  making 
love  to  each  other  in  real  life.  The  sight  of  Mouse  to- 
night flirting  quite  abominably  with  Wolfstein  sug- 
gested these  reflections.  And  Mouse  is  bigger  than 
most  people  in  these  respects.  She  didn't  go  to  the 
back  of  the  box  or  hide  behind  the  curtain,  but  sat  right 
in  the  middle  at  the  front,  in  a  blaze  of  light,  just  oppo- 
site the  royal  box." 

11  Publish  a  small  manual,"  said  Charlie:  "  *  The 
Child 's  Primer  of  Flirting. '  It  would  have  a  great  suc- 
cess. You  must  tell  me  how  to  make  love  on  a  big 
scale." 

"  Oh,  it's  the  singing,"  said  Lucia.  "  I  feel  sure  it's 
the  singing — that,  anyhow,  in  conjunction  with  pub- 
licity. We  must  all  learn  to  sing,  and  put  notices  in  the 
paper,  *  Count  Wolfstein  will  court ' — what  a  beautiful 
word — '  will  court  the  Duchess  of  Wilstshire  from  half- 
past  six  to  a  quarter  past  seven  on  Thursday  next, 
by  the  Achilles  statue.  The  Queen's  Hall  band  will  ac- 
company her  Grace.'  Did  you  sing  to  Maud!  Edgar 
never  sang  to  me." 

It  was  by  well-calculated  design  that  Lucia  was  flip- 
pant and  bubbling  with  nonsense.  She  saw  that  Charlie 
was  excited,  shocked,  perhaps,  at  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  in  love  with  her,  which  had  this  evening  only  fully 
burst  upon  him,  and  the  situation  required  delicate 
handling.  It  required  also  that  she  should  not  detain 
him  long,  should  soon  dismiss  him.  Yet  she  felt  very 
unwilling  to  do  so ;  he  was  delightful  in  this  new  char- 
acter, silent  rather,  and  shy  but  extraordinarily  attract- 
ive. For  more  than  a  year  now  they  had  been  the 
greatest  of  friends;  he  was  so  quick,  so  ready  with 


THE   CLIMBER  347 

laughter,  so  boisterously  high-spirited.  But  to-night 
all  that  was  changed ;  she  knew  why,  and  she  found  the 
change  adorable.  How  good-looking  he  was  too ;  really 
Maud  was  a  very  lucky  person. 

Lucia  went  up  to  bed  immediately  after  he  had  gone. 
All  evening,  up  till  that  moment  of  meeting  Charlie  on 
the  steps  of  Maud's  house,  she  had  been  rather  op- 
pressed with  the  sense  of  the  futility  and  repetition  in- 
cident to  life;  but  now  all  that  was  dismissed.  For  the 
last  six  months  she  had  wondered  what  was  to  be  the 
outcome  of  this  very  close  friendship  between  Charlie 
and  herself,  and  of  late  she  had  been  inclined  to  class  it 
among  the  futile  repetitions.  But  to-night,  in  a  single 
moment,  all  that  had  been  changed;  he  would  never 
look  at  her  again  with  the  frank  eyes  of  an  admiring 
comrade.  He  would  look  at  her  either  not  at  all  or  with 
the  mute  glance  of  love.  She  felt  sure  she  was  right 
about  it ;  there  was  no  mistaking  it.  And — it  had  hap- 
pened just  as  she  had  meant. 

She  had  dismissed  her  maid,  for  she  wanted  to  think 
this  out,  and  she  could  only  do  that  in  solitude.  She 
was  not  in  love  with  him,  but  she  had  led  him  on — led 
him  on,  putting  forth  all  her  power  to  charm,  to  intoxi- 
cate, and  she  had  accomplished  her  plan.  What  did  she 
mean  to  do  next?  Was  she  merely  a  flirt,  one  of  those 
wretched,  poisonous  butterflies  which  four  years  ago 
she  had  so  sincerely  condemned  in  a  talk  she  had  had 
with  Maud?  Yes,  she  had  condemned  them  then,  but 
she  was  not  so  sure  that  she  condemned  them  now.  It 
was — it  was  such  fun  making  the  strong  man  bow  him- 
self just  with  a  touch  of  her  slender  fingers.  It  was  an 
exercise  of  power,  an  assertion  of  one's  own  individu- 
ality, which  was  the  supreme  pleasure  in  life.  Perhaps 


348  THE   CLIMBER 

she  was  just  a  flirt,  then.  Certainly  she  was  not  in  love 
with  him.  But  he  had  been  intensely  attractive  to-night 
in  his  silence,  his  forced  speech,  his  sudden  shyness 
with  her. 

Then  a  sudden  wave  of  repulsion  at  herself  swept 
over  her.  She  had  done  a  hideous  thing  to-night,  and 
for  a  moment  she  knew  it  was  hideous.  If  only  she  had 
been  in  love  with  him,  there  might  have  been  some  ex- 
cuse for  her;  it  would,  anyhow,  have  been  under  the 
stress  of  temptation  that  she  had  acted  thus.  But  there 
was  no  such  palliation  for  her.  She  had  done  it  in  cold 
blood,  because  she  liked  to  exercise  her  power  over  men. 
And  the  very  fact  that  it  was  Maud's  husband  to  whom 
she  had  done  this  had,  she  knew,  added  a  certain 
piquancy  to  it.  It  was  a  supremely  devilish  piece  of 
work. 

Yet  even  then  she  was  not  quite  sure  that,  had  ful- 
filment of  a  wish  been  granted  her,  she  would  have 
wished  it  undone,  for  she  would  then  have  to  go  back  to 
the  rather  jaded  appreciation  of  life  that  had  of  late 
been  growing  upon  her,  life  with  its  repetitions  that 
were  becoming  monotonous,  even  though  it  was  a  re- 
markably brilliant  thing  that  was  being  repeated.  And 
though  what  she  had  done  was  devilish,  it  was  very  in- 
teresting. There  would  be  developments  of  some  kind 
now:  nothing,  especially  when  a  summit  had  been  at- 
tained, stayed  crystallized.  What  they  should  be  she 
could  not  conjecture.  She  was  not  in  love  with  him — 
at  least  she  thought  not. 

So,  consoled  by  these  interesting  reflections,  she  went 
to  bed. 

Lucia  had  mentioned  to  Maud  the  fact  that  Aunt 


THE   CLIMBER  349 

Cathie  was  going  to  stay  with  her  at  Brayton ;  what  she 
had  omitted  to  mention  either  to  her  or  to  her  husband 
was  the  real  reason  why  she  wanted  her  there.  This 
was  simply  in  order  that  she  might  not  be  alone  with 
Edgar.  His  power  of  boring  and  irritating  her  had 
taken  immense  strides  lately,  and  with  the  wisdom  and 
forethought  that  characterized  almost  everything  that 
Lucia  did,  she  was  sensible  in  avoiding  a  long  period 
of  solitude  shared  only  by  him.  Lucia  was  well  aware 
that  solitude  and  retirement  did  not  suit  her,  and  now 
more  especially  she  knew  how  irksome  she  would  find 
it  to  leave  London  and  the  season  at  its  midmost,  and 
bury  herself  in  the  country,  while  every  day  brought 
nearer  to  her  an  event  that  she  dreaded.  That  was  the 
truth  of  it ;  since  it  had  to  be,  she  faced  it  with  perfect 
calmness  and  courage;  but  Maud's  happiness  over  a 
similar  anticipation — a  happiness  that  was  beyond  all 
speech  (even  if  she  had  been  good  at  expression) — was 
as  inexplicable  to  her  as  a  language  of  which  she  did 
not  know  the  rudiments.  Woman  though  she  was,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  very  elements  of  maternity  had  been 
denied  her;  she  had  nothing  whatever  in  her,  except 
the  physical  power  to  bear  a  child,  out  of  that  huge  pas- 
sion that  makes,  after  all,  the  essential  difference  be- 
tween the  sexes.  She  had  less  sense  of  motherhood— 
in  anticipation,  at  all  events — than  has  the  natural  child 
that  nurses  her  doll,  and  pretends  it  is  her  child.  All 
she  knew  was  that  a  physical  trial,  more  or  less  severe, 
was  in  front  of  her,  and  when  that  was  over,  if  all  went 
well,  there  would  be  a  child  the  more  in  the  world.  The 
fact  that  it  would  be  hers  meant  nothing  to  her. 

And  before  this  brilliant  consummation  was  attained, 
there  were  to  be  weeks  of  quietness  down  at  Brayton, 


350  THE  CLIMBER 

while  she  was  missing  all  that  she  most  loved  in  life. 
Futile  though  she  might  find  its  repetitions,  she  in- 
finitely preferred  those  repetitions  to  those  undesired 
weeks  in  the  country.  Edgar  had  said  the  country 
would  look  charming;  well,  Piccadilly  looked  charming, 
too,  and  she  found  a  better  music  at  the  Opera,  or  even 
in  the  clip-clop  of  horses '  hoofs  over  the  wooden  pave- 
ments, than  in  the  song  of  birds.  She  envied  the  birds, 
though;  they  could  lay  eggs. 

Edgar  welcomed  her  at  the  door.  She  had  motored 
down  from  town,  and  he  at  once  began  to  be  tiresome, 
directing  the  chauffeur  to  bring  the  car  quite  up  to  the 
step,  so  that  she  might  get  out  more  easily.  He  offered 
her  his  arm,  too,  up  the  flight  that  led  to  the 
front  door,  behind  which,  gleaming  in  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun,  Lucia  saw  the  spectacles  of  Aunt 
Cathie. 

"  My  darling,  and  you  have  made  the  journey  with- 
out fatigue,  I  hope, ' '  said  Edgar.  *  *  Not  got  chilly  with 
the  car  open !  I  wish  you  had  shut  it.  And  I  have  had 
the  punt  repaired;  you  can  float  about  on  the  lake,  as 
you  used  to  like  to  do." 

This  was  worse  than  Lucia  had  expected.  He  had  a 
bedside  manner  already.  But  for  her  own  sake  she 
meant  to  make  the  best  of  things. 

;'  Ah,  that  is  charming  of  you,"  she  said.  "  And 
Aunt  Cathie  has  arrived.  Do  let  us  have  tea  at  once — I 
am  so  hungry.  Ah,  dear  Aunt  Cathie,  how  nice  to  see 
you." 

Lucia  congratulated  herself  anew  that  she  had 
thought  of  this  tender,  charming  plan  of  getting  Aunt 
Cathie  to  stay  with  them.  She  was  so  lonely  in  Brix- 
ham— and  Edgar  would  have  been  quite  dreadful  if  she 


THE   CLIMBER  351 

was  alone  with  him.  Even  now  he  was  distinctly 
trying;  his  eye  sparkled  when  she  said  she  was 
hungry. 

1 '  Oh,  dearest,  have  an  egg  with  your  tea !  "  he  said. 
"  They  will  boil  one  in  a  minute." 

"  Then  it  would  be  quite  raw,"  said  Lucia.  "  Dear 
Edgar,  do — do  pull  yourself  together.  What's  the  mat- 
ter? Pour  out  tea,  Aunt  Cathie,  will  you?  It  is  quite 
like  the  Brixham  tea  parties  when  Edgar  used  to  motor 
over  and  stop  for  dinner." 

Aunt  Cathie's  face  made  a  sudden  odd  contraction. 
Instantly  Lucia  remembered.  There  had  been  four  at 
these  tea  parties.  But  why — why  make  a  face  months 
afterwards,  when  it  was  only  by  indirect  reference  that 
the  spectacle  of  the  tea-parties  was  recalled?  Besides, 
Lucia  felt  sure  that  Aunt  Cathie  had  been  much  hap- 
pier really  after  her  sister's  death  than  she  had  been 
for  at  least  a  year  before.  Elizabeth  had  always  been 
querulous  and  tiresome;  she  had  in  her  last  illnessr 
which  was  also  her  first,  become  unspeakable.  Lucia 
had  gone  to  see  her  once — no,  twice — and  she  had  com- 
plained, complained,  complained  the  whole  time,  blam- 
ing Lucia  for  giving  her  an  attack  of  hay-fever,  for 
playing  lawn  tennis  before  the  alternate  Tuesdays,  for 
marrying,  for  giving  parties  when  she  should  have  been 
sitting  with  her  aunt.  And  she  had  been  just  the  same 
with  Cathie.  Yet  now,  months  after  her  death,  Aunt 
Cathie  "  made  a  face  " — that  was  the  only  way  to  ex- 
press it — because  Lucia  said  that  having  tea  this  after- 
noon reminded  her  of  having  tea  at  Brixham,  whereas 
Aunt  Elizabeth  had  been  there  then  and  was  not  here 
now.  She  began  to  wish  she  had  not  asked  Aunt 
Cathie,  but  then,  looking  at  the  solicitous  face  of  her 


352  THE   CLIMBER 

husband  opposite,  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she 
had  chosen  the  lesser  of  two  evils. 

Then  having  already  told  Edgar  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether, Lucia  began  to  perceive  that  she  wanted  pull- 
ing together  herself.  If  she  was  going  to  look  out  for 
annoyances,  she  would,  without  any  difficulty,  find  quite 
sufficient  to  make  these  weeks  intolerable.  To  do  that 
would  be  inflicting  additional  punishment  on  herself, 
and  surely  she  had  quite  enough  to  bear  already.  It  was 
much  wiser  to  see  the  ridiculous,  the  humorous  aspect 
of  things,  if  that  could  be  discovered.  Everything  had 
its  humorous  aspect  to  the  diligent  inquirer,  and  Lucia 
determined  that  no  effort  on  her  part  should  be  lacking 
in  the  search  for  it. 

As  always,  honest  effort  had  its  reward,  and  after 
dinner  she  found  much  more  amusement  in  observing 
Edgar  showing  Aunt  Cathie  those  immense  tomes  of 
foreign  travel,  copiously  illustrated  with  photographs, 
than  she  had  often  found  at  the  play.  She  herself  was 
reading,  or  rather  dipping  into  a  new  book  which  had 
the  reputation  of  being  both  witty  and  improper,  but 
she  dipped  more  and  more  rarely  as  this  matchless 
demonstration  proceeded. 

"  Yes,  from  there  we  went  to  Palestine,"  said  Ed- 
gar, "  and  travelled  right  through  it.  See,  Lucia  put 
on  the  title-page  of  the  section  '  From  Dan  even  to 
Beersheba.'  We  often  thought  over  the  text." 

Lucia  had  a  little  silent  spasm  of  laughter.  That  liar1, 
been  a  fine  and  subtle  idea  of  hers.  But  surely  it  wr.s 
difficult  to  think  over  the  text '  *  from  Dan  even  to  Beer- 
sheba."  You  sat  down  to  think  it  over;  what  thoughts 
came? 


THE   CLIMBER  353 

Edgar  proceeded. 

'  *  And  then,  you  see,  I  gummed  in  a  little  piece  from 
one  of  the  cedars  of  Lebanon.  Lucia,  dearest,  we  do 
not  disturb  you,  do  we?  Do  you  remember  the  after- 
noon on  Mount  Carmel!  " 

' '  Oh,  well, ' '  said  Lucia ; '  *  it  was  a  glorious  day,  and 
we  had  tea  there. ' ' 

"  Fancy!  "  said  Aunt  Cathie.  "  How  vivid  it  all 
makes  it!  Fancy  having  tea  on  Mount  Camel.  *  The 
hour  of  the  evening  sacrifice.'  I  remember  my  father 
once  preaching  on  that  text." 

The  expedition  went  on  to  Egypt,  and,  on  seeing  an 
immense  photograph  of  the  Great  Pyramid,  and  hear- 
ing the  date  of  it,  Aunt  Cathie  most  justly  observed 
how  it  took  one  back.  The  Pharaoh  of  the  oppression 
took  one  far  forward  from  that,  and  yet  even  he  was 
quite  at  the  beginning  of  the  Bible.  Explorers  had  not 
found  any  statue  of  Moses !  No  I  Well,  it  was  hardly 
to  be  expected.  And  the  travellers  left  for  Greece. 

Aunt  Cathie  had  always  particularly  wanted  to  see 
Greece;  she  could  not  say  why,  unless  it  was  Lord 
Byron,  and  Lucia  again  quivered  with  inward  laughter 
at  the  idea  of  Aunt  Cathie  and  Lord  Byron  as  travelling 
companions.  Oh,  how  right  she  had  been  to  get  Aunt 
Cathie  to  come  here !  She  could  picture  to  herself  with 
great  vividness  how  deplorable  she  would  have  found 
the  evening  if  she  had  been  alone  with  Edgar.  But  it 
was  a  rich  entertainment  to  observe  the  two:  he  de- 
lighted to  pour  out  funds  of  information,  historical,  geo- 
graphical, and  artistic;  she  understanding  some  quite 
negligible  fraction  of  what  he  was  saying,  but  ejacu- 
lating at  intervals,  *  *  Dear,  how  interesting !  I  had  no 
idea  Pericles  was  as  long  ago  as  that.  And  to  think 


354  THE   CLIMBER 

that  all  these  beautiful  temples  were  put  up  to  heathen 
deities  1  And  you  really  had  lunch  on  the  Areopagus, 
perhaps  on  the  very  place  where  St.  Paul  preached. 
I'm  sure  I  couldn't  have  eaten  a  morsel.'* 

All  this  Lucia  drank  in  with  secret  glee.  But  there 
was  very  little  kindliness  or  tenderness  in  her  appre- 
ciation of  it.  She  saw  only  the  ridiculous  side  of  it, 
that  Aunt  Cathie  showed  this  strange  but  perfectly 
genuine  interest  in  photographs  of  places  she  had  never 
seen  and  accounts  of  people  whom  she  had  never  heard 
of.  But  the  pathos  of  it,  the  humanity  of  it,  in  that  she, 
already  stumbling  in  the  mists  of  the  grey  years,  should 
still  be  so  interested  in  lives  and  places  so  distant  from 
her,  so  alien  to  her,  quite  passed  Lucia  by.  Yet  for  a 
moment  she  envied  her  aunt,  who  could  feel  real  pleas- 
ure and  interest  in  this  dreary  recital,  so  that  for  many 
evenings  to  come,  when  she  sat  by  her  solitary  fireside 
at  Fair  View,  she  would  try  to  place  this  evening 
among  her  pleasant  reminiscences,  and  again  try  to 
disentangle  the  Egyptian  Thebes  from  the  Thebes  in 
Greece,  and  place  Epaminondas  in  his  native  country. 
That  Lucia  envied — the  power  of  taking  pleasure  in 
infinitesimal  things  like  this.  Why  should  Aunt  Cathie 
have  that  gift,  and  not  she?  Fancy  being  able  to  like 
looking  at  photographs !  If  so  mean  a  form  of  enter- 
tainment pleased  her,  she  felt  she  would  be  happier 
than  the  length  of  summer  days. 

Another  thing,  too,  she  envied.  Aunt  Cathie  was  so 
much  gentler,  so  much  less  abrupt  and  brusque  than 
she  used  to  be.  The  passage  of  the  years,  like  the  hours 
of  summer  suns,  seemed  to  have  mellowed  her.  And 
Lucia  was  conscious  that  no  such  mellowing  was  taking 
place  in  herself;  she  knew  herself  to  be  harder  than  she 


THE   CLIMBER  355 

used  to  be,  less  indulgent  of  people  who  were  tiresome, 
less  easily  pleased. 

And  then  she  remembered  that  new  interest  which 
had  come  into  her  life  yesterday.  She  was  sure  that 
Charlie  loved  her.  What  a  dreadful  situation!  And 
how  intensely  interesting! 


CHAPTER  XV 

PARLIAMENT  sat  late  this  year,  and,  owing  to  the 
impious  and  almost  profane  attacks  that  were  be- 
ing made  on  the  House  of  Lords  by  the  infamous  Lib- 
eral party,  Edgar  had  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  stand 
by  his  order  and  be  in  his  place  every  day  in  the  gilded 
chamber.  Since  this  was  an  affair  of  duty,  it  followed 
that  Lucia's  arguments  on  the  other  side  of  the  ques- 
tion were  powerless  to  move  him. 

"  I  really  think  it  is  rather  hard  on  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  missed  three-quarters  of  the  season  in  order  to 
carry  out  successfully  my  duty  in  giving  you  a  son  and 
heir,  and  as  soon  as  my  duties  are  over,  it  seems  that  I 
have  to  sit  and  hold  your  hand  while  you  do  yours. 
Can't  you,  can't  you  pair  with  one  of  these  newly 
elected  peers,  whom  nobody  ever  heard  of?  I'm  sure 
you  could  find  out  the  name  of  one  of  them  if  you  made 
inquiries  in  the  proper  quarters." 

Edgar  threw  back  his  head  with  a  great  shout  of 
laughter.  For  the  last  six  weeks,  since  the  birth  of  his 
son,  he  had  been  a  different  man.  Though  maternity 
appealed  so  little  to  the  mother,  paternity  seemed  a  tre- 
mendous thing  to  him.  "  In  fact,  he  takes  the  entire 
credit,"  Lucia  had  once  remarked  to  Mouse.  And  with 
this  great  ambition  gratified,  his  spirits  had  been  al- 
most boisterous. 

' '  Ah,  capital,  capital, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You  cut  so  neatly, 
my  darling,  a  conversational  surgeon.  But  pairing — 
no,  no.  One  must  be  in  one's  place.  Dearest,  I  regret 

356 


THE   CLIMBER  357 

the  necessity;  nothing  would  please  me  more  than  to 
start  to-morrow,  all  alone  with  you  and  baby,  and  go  on 
and  on  in  the  yacht  for  ever.  You  priceless  one !  ' ; 

This  was  not  exactly  what  Lucia  meant. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  come  on  for  ever,"  she  said.  "  I 
only  want  you  to  come  to  Cowes.  Oh,  Edgar,  I  have 
been  so  good.  And  I  can't  entertain  alone,  I  don't 
really  feel  up  to  it.  I  think  you  might  come." 

Edgar  became  solemn. 

"  A  wave  of  Socialism  and  Radicalism  is  sweeping 
over  the  country,"  he  said.  "  It  must  be  actively  re- 
sisted, not  passively.  As  you  so  neatly  said,  as  far  as 
voting  goes,  if  I  found  out  the  name  of  one  of  these 
new  peers,  and  paired,  the  result  would  be  identical. 
But  there  is  more  at  stake  than  that.  "We,  the  old  land- 
owners, the  territorial  magnates,  represent  more  than 
some  very  worthy  gentleman,  whose  name  at  present  is 
unfortunately  unknown  to  us,  though  very  likely  we 
use  his  soap." 

"  Then  do  you  want  me  to  broil  in  London  all 
August,  because  vou  sit  in  the  House  of  Lords  for  ten 
minutes  on  three  afternoons  in  the  week?  ' 

He  shook  his  head  at  her. 

"  There  is  a  Whiggish  smack  about  that,"  he  said. 
' '  I  protest ;  I  must  protest.  But  as  for  your  broiling 
in  London  all  August,  I  never  contemplated  that.  Go 
up  to  Scotland  if  you  like ;  pay  some  visits.  Take  the 
yacht,  or  go  to  Brayton.  That  is  what  I  personally 
should  like  you  to  do.  I  could  then  get  down  on  Friday, 
and  see  my — my  goddess  and  my  child." 

Lucia  thought  this  over. 

* '  I  should  like  Cowes  best, ' '  she  said.  ' '  But  Cowes 
is  a  little  formidable  if  I  am  entertaining  alone.  But 


358  THE   CLIMBER 

perhaps  if  I  could  get  a  few  people  to  come  and  vege- 
tate with  me  at  Brayton,  we  might  be  a  not  unhappy 
cabbage-patch." 

This  idea  had  been  put  into  practical  form,  and  at 
the  end  of  July,  after  a  fortnight  in  town,  Lucia  moved 
down  to  Brayton  again.  She  had  secured  some  half- 
dozen  people  to  save  her,  as  she  said,  from  dry-rot,  and 
among  these  were  Charlie  and  Maud  and  their  child. 
Mouse  was  there  also,  Harry  was  there,  and  one  or  two 
others ;  but  before  she  had  been  at  Brayton  a  week,  it 
seemed  to  Lucia  that  everybody  else  had  become  of  in- 
finitesimal importance,  had  retired  to  the  vanishing 
point,  except  Maud  and  Charlie  On  Fridays  Edgar 
appeared,  and  took  up  a  large  part  of  the  horizon 
again,  but  he  vanished  also  on  Monday  morning.  And 
with  him,  it  must  be  added,  vanished  all  thought  of  him 
until  on  Friday  afternoon  he  reappeared  again,  having 
motored  down  from  London  a  shade  under  the  speed 
limit,  so  as  to  be  quite  on  the  safe  side.  And  he  always 
caused  the  horn  to  be  blown  at  any  cross-road,  whether 
the  driver  could  see  it  was  clear  or  not.  He  never  took 
risks.  And  at  the  thought  Lucia  drew  a  long  breath, 
quickly,  impatiently.  He  never  took  small  risks ;  that 
was  what  she  believed  him  to  mean.  He  could  see 
small  risks,  and  provide  against  them.  But  he  never 
appeared  to  see  big  risks.  He  could  not  see  beyond  his 
nose,  or  beyond  the  next  corner.  Little  as  she  wished 
him  to,  it  was  yet  a  cause  of  irritation  to  her  that  he 
did  not. 

People  had  come  and  gone  from  Brayton  during  this 
month  of  August.  People  had  also  come  and  gone,  and 
come  back.  Mouse  was  among  these;  she  had  given  her 


THE   CLIMBER  359 

husband  leave  to  wander  where  he  liked,  provided  that 
she  might  wander  where  she  liked,  and  she  had  been  at 
Brayton  during  the  first  week  in  August,  had  gone  away 
for  the  second,  and  had  just  come  back  for  another  ten 
days  before  she  went  up  to  Scotland  to  make  open 
house  for  September.  Lady  Heron  had  been  in  and  out 
also,  Harry  had  appeared  from  time  to  time,  and  dis- 
appeared and  appeared  again.  A  succession  of  people 
came  for  a  Saturday  till  Monday,  or  from  a  Monday 
till  Saturday,  since  to  all  those  who  were  anchored  in 
town  till  Parliament  broke  up  Brayton  was  a  perfect 
godsend.  But  two — three  guests  remained  there  with- 
out moving — Maud,  Charlie,  and  their  baby. 

Little  as  maternity  had  proved  to  mean  to  Lucia, 
these  weeks  showed  her  with  the  significance  of  the 
writing  on  the  wall  what  it  might  have  meant,  showed 
her,  perhaps,  what  it  should  have  meant.  The  truth 
came  to  her  in  ironical  flashes,  so  to  speak.  The  flash 
lit  up  the  scene  of  what  might  have  been.  It  never  lit 
up  the  whole  scene;  it  lit  it  up  in  sections,  but  before 
long  she  was  able  to  piece  the  fragmentary  illumina- 
tion together,  and  form  a  fair  idea  of  the  whole.  Some- 
times such  fragments  seemed  like  unlocalized  pieces  of 
a  puzzle,  but  even  they  gradually  settled  down  into 
their  places.  She  tried  them  in  various  ways  before 
they  all  seemed  to  fit,  but  a  little  ingenuity  soon  made 
homes  for  them  all. 

One  day,  for  instance,  she  was  floating  about  on  the 
lake  with  Maud.  The  punt  had  nosed  its  way  into  a 
Sargasso  Sea  of  water-lilies,  and  it  was  really  impos- 
sible to  proceed.  So  Lucia  laid  the  dripping  pole 
lengthwise  on  the  boat,  and  sat  down  by  Maud. 

"  We're  anchored,"  she  said,  "  as  regards  further 


360  THECLIMBEE 

progress.  I  shall  sit  down  and  rest,  and  then  we'll  go 
back." 

Maud  edged  to  the  side  of  the  boat,  to  give  Lucia 
room. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  ever  do  rest,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
so  like — like  something,  the  Flying  Dutchman,  if  you 
will,  that  has  to  go  on  and  on.  But  you  like  going  on 
and  on,"  she  added;  "  you  are  not  driven  by  a  curse 
but  by  blessings. ' ' 

Lucia  felt  the  simile,  in  so  far  as  it  was  concerned 
only  with  going  on  and  on,  to  be  admirably  applicable. 

"  Ah,  we  all  want  new  things — new  things,"  she  said. 
"  When  we  know  a  thing  we  cease  to  care  for  it.  '  The 
glory  of  going  on!  '  Who  says  that?  St.  Paul,  I 
should  think.  But  you  seem  to  find  such  rapture  in  the 
satisfaction  of  standing  still.  Oh,  yes,  darling,  you  are 
a  cow ;  I  think  we  settled  that  long  ago.  Do  give  me  the 
recipe.  How  to  be  a  cow!  I  wish  I  knew.  Maud,  I 
could  shake  you  sometimes  with  pure  irritation  at  your 
content.  If  you  only  were  a  fool,  I  shouldn  't  mind,  for 
I  should  say  that  you  were  contented  because  you  were 
a  fool.  Oh,  talk  and  tell  me." 

Maud  raised  herself  a  little  on  her  elbow. 

"  But  how  could  I  not  be  content?  "  she  said.  "  I 
can't  wish  for  more  than  I  have  got.  Perhaps  I  have 
no  imagination.  Very  likely  that  is  so.  But  God  seems 
to  me  to  have  a  wonderful  imagination.  I  think  He 
has  imagined  His  very  best  for  me." 

Lucia  again  felt  slightly  impatient. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  dispute  it,"  said  she;  "  but  that  isn't 
enough.  One  has  to  have  something  in  oneself  in  order 
to  appreciate  one's  happiness.  In  the  courts  of  heaven 
that  may  be  all  done  for  one,  but  in  the  meantime  we 


THE   CLIMBER  361 

are  here  in  a  punt  on  a  lake  in  the  county  of  Hampshire. 
Try  to  be  less  celestial.  Tell  me  why  I,  who  have  so 
much  more  than  you — I  have  really,  darling ;  I  am  much 
cleverer  and  richer  and  more  repandue — tell  me  why  I 
want,  while  you  have  got.  Talk  about  things  by  their 
names." 

Maud  sat  up. 

"  Well,  Charlie  is  my  husband,"  she  said,  "  and  he 
has  given  me,  or  I  have  given  him,  a  child.  I  have 
friends,  and  a  friend  who  is  sitting  by  me." 

Lucia  tapped  the  side  of  the  punt  with  a  tattoo  of 
fingers. 

"  But  what  then?  "  she  said.  "  What  next?  More 
children,  I  suppose,  and  more  friends.  Oh,  it  is  repe- 
tition. I  know  what  friends  mean,  I  know  what  a  child 
means.  Is  that  all?  My  God!  is  that  all?  " 

Then,  with  her  quick  instinct,  she  divined  that  Maud 
was  hurt. 

11  I  have  a  friend  sitting  by  me,  too,"  she  said,  "  but 
I  don't  want  another.  That  is  sufficient.  For  nobody 
will  ever  be  to  me  what  you  have  been  and  are.  Oh, 
Maud,  you  are  good;  I  expect  that's  it.  If  you  lived  in 
a  cottage  on  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and  Charlie  tied 
bootlaces  below  his  knee  and  went  out  to  dig  potatoes, 
and  called  you  his  '  missus,'  I  believe  you  would  be 
happy.  It's  your  temperament  to  be  happy.  My  tem- 
perament is  to  want  to  be  happy.  Go  on,  please ;  tell  me 
about  your  life.  Tell  me  what  makes  you  happy,  and — 
and  I  shall  order  some.  Be  domestic.  Say  what  Charlie 
is,  and  what  you  are,  and  what  Philippino  is.  Be  philo- 
sophical, if  you  like— yes,  do  be  philosophical,  and  ex- 
plain the  principles  of  domestic  happiness." 

"  For  me  or  Charlie?  "  asked  Maud. 


362  THE   CLIMBER 

"  Both,"  said  Lucia,  and  settled  herself  to  listen. 

Maud  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Oh,  it's  so  hard  to  explain,"  she  said,  "  but  it  is  so 
clear  to  me.  Let's  take  Charlie  first.  Well,  here  he  is, 
Lucia,  and  he  and  I  have  been  here  close  on  three  weeks, 
and  Charlie  said  last  night  that  he  proposed  to  stop  till 
you  turned  him  out.  Doesn't  that  mean  content?  The 
darling  doesn't  know  what  it  is  that  makes  him  so  con- 
tent. But  it's  Philippino  and  me.  It  is  really.  He 
says  he  doesn't  want  to  go  to  Scotland,  he  wants  to  stop 
here,  and  catch  one  fish  in  the  morning  and  one  in  the 
afternoon,  and  play  halfpenny  bridge,  and — and  do 
nothing.  Ah,  isn't  that  enough  to  make  one  content? 
It  sounds  quite  common,  doesn't  it?  for  I  suppose  it  is 
just  love  that  makes  me  content.  Yet  you've  got  it,  and 
you  still  want.  How  queer!  It  makes  Charlie  con- 
tent, too." 

That  was  a  flashlight;  there  was  a  large  area  illu- 
minated then.  At  one  moment  she  felt  that  it  was  im- 
possible that  Maud  should  not  see  what  his  content  sig- 
nified, at  the  next  she  felt  that  it  was  impossible  that 
Maud  should. 

A  more  searching  flashlight,  a  light  that,  pierced 
through  the  very  flesh,  was  bull's-eyed  upon  her  half  an 
hour  afterwards.  They  backed  out  of  the  clump  of 
lilies,  went  alongside  the  wooden  landing-stage,  and 
strolled  up  to  the  house  for  lunch.  On  the  terrace  walk 
were  two  perambulators,  being  wheeled  parallel  the 
one  to  the  other.  Maud's  nurse  pushed  one,  but  the 
other,  containing  Lucia's  baby,  had  just  one  long  strong 
hand  on  it,  while  the  other  saluted  them  as  they  came 
up  from  the  lake. 


THE   CLIMBER  363 

"  All  else  has  failed,"  shouted  Charlie,  "  and  I'm  be- 
ing apprenticed  for  the  post  of  nurse." 

He  had  taken  the  perambulator  from  the  hands  of 
Lucia 's  nurse,  and  she  was  walking  a  little  behind,  with 
giggles  and  glances  at  the  other,  and  an  occasional 
"  Lor,  Mr.  Lindsay  "  at  Charlie's  preposterous  con- 
versation. The  two  baby-carriages  were  axle  to  axle, 
and  just  as  Lucia  and  Maud  got  on  to  the  terrace, 
Lucia's  baby,  with  a  gurgle  of  delight,  stretched  out  a 
plump,  dimpled  hand  towards  the  man  who  pushed  his 
carriage. 

Then  came  the  flashlight.  Lucia  looked  at  Maud's 
baby,  and  there  shot  into  her  mind  the  knowledge  that 
it  was  Charlie's ;  Charlie  looked  at  the  dimpled  hand  of 
Lucia's  child,  and  remembered  that  it  was  hers.  Then 
the  eyes  of  a  father  and  a  mother  met,  and  Lucia  knew 
that  into  her  mind  had  come  the  thought,  "  If  he  was 
the  father  of  my  child,  I  should  understand." 

And  what  she  would  understand  was  that  which 
shone  in  Maud's  eyes  and  smiled  in  her  mouth  as  she 
looked  at  her  child,  which  was  Charlie's. 

She  knew  then  what  she  had  missed.  But  Edgar's 
child  and  hers  put  out  dimpled  fingers  towards  the  man 
who  pushed  it.  She  knew  again,  and  more  distinctly, 
what  she  had  missed.  But  the  thought  of  stale  and  end- 
less repetitions  left  her;  the  flashlight  hinted  at  some- 
thing new,  something  she  had  seen  and  observed,  but 
never  yet  experienced. 

Late  that  evening,  after  dinner,  they  all  went  out  on 
to  the  terrace.  There  were  some  dozen  people  in  the 
house,  and  it  was  by  accident,  as  far  as  Lucia  was  con' 
cerned,  that  the  man  who  let  himself  down  from  the 


364  THE   CLIMBER 

seat  on  the  terrace  wall  just  as  she  came  out,  last  of  her 
guests,  arm  in  arm  with  Maud,  was  Maud's  husband. 

So  Maud  put  her  disengaged  hand  into  his  arm,  and 
all  three  stood  there  together,  she  in  the  middle  be- 
tween Lucia  and  Charlie. 

"  And  so  here  we  are,  all  three,"  she  said;  "  but  for 
the  moment  it  is  going  to  be  all  two,  you  and  Lucia. 
Blessed  Philippine  has  been  crying,  and  I  must  go  up 
and  see  what  is  the  matter.  Don't  come  up,  Chubby. 
I  shall  be  down  again  soon." 

Maud  went  back  through  the  drawing-room  where  the 
servants  were  beginning  to  put  out  card-tables,  leaving 
the  other  two  on  the  terrace.  The  rest  of  the  party,  all 
intimate,  had  strolled  on  a  little  ahead,  and  the  noise 
of  their  talking  and  laughter  came  in  gradual  diminu- 
endo. But  they  would  be  back  in  a  few  minutes,  for 
bridge,  now  that  Edgar  was  not  here  to  keep  up  the 
tone  of  conversation,  was  the  vague  order  for  the  even- 
ing. They  would  be  alone  for  only  the  briefest  space. 
Then  Lucia  spoke. 

"  Maud  is  altogether  wrapped  up  in  Philippine,"  she 
said.  "  She  doesn't  ever  give  a  thought  to  you  now, 
Chubby.  I  should  take  steps  about  wifely  desertion,  if 
I  were  you.  Edgar  is  just  as  bad.  He  comes  down 
from  Saturday  till  Monday  only,  as  you  see.  What  a 
heavenly  night!  Where  has  everybody  gone?  We 
seem  to  be  left  friendless  and  alone,  you  and  I." 

Lucia  knew  what  she  was  doing.  Though  she  spoke 
with  her  light,  quick  voice,  she  was  aware  that  her 
words  would  have  a  double-edge  for  him.  Then  she 
heard  a  sudden  little  creak  from  his  shirt,  as  if  he  had 
drawn  a  breath  rapidly. 

"  Yes,  quite  alone,"  he  said.    "  Maud  upstairs,  the 


THE   CLIMBER  365 

deserted  wife  and  the  deserted  husband  here,  and  the 
rest  of  them 

She  laughed. 

"  What  a  discreet  pause!  "  she  said.  "  So  discreet 
that  you  really  must  go  on.  What  are  the  rest  of  them 
doing!  " 

"  Oh,  making  love,  I  suppose,"  he  said  impatiently 
in  a  voice  that  Lucia  hardly  knew.  There  was  revolt  in 
it,  rebellion  and — envy. 

The  light  from  the  open  windows  of  the  drawing- 
room  shone  out  very  clearly  on  to  them,  illuminating 
his  figure,  as  he  stood  there,  tall,  eager-eyed,  uncon- 
scious of  himself,  but  very  vividly  conscious  of  her. 
And  Lucia  knew  that  she  was  playing  with  fire,  knew 
also  that  she  was  running  the  usual  risk  of  those  who 
do  such  things.  But  she  told  herself  that  she  had  not 
been  in  the  least  burned  yet ;  the  fire  was  only  delight- 
fully warm.  And  she  took  a  couple  of  steps  out  of  the 
square  of  illumination  into  the  dusk,  drawing  him  with 
her. 

"  And  why  not!  "  said  she.  "  Surely  everybody 
who  is  at  all  alive  is  making  love  all  the  time  to  some- 
thing or  somebody,  to  an  idea  if  not  to  a  person.  The 
moment  you  cease  to  be  in  love  you  cease  to  live.  And 
the  worst  of  it  is  that  you  have  to  go  on  living  just  the 
same." 

"  Yes,  that  is  damnably  bad,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  sudden  fierceness  about  this  which  en- 
chanted her.  The  heart  of  the  man  had  suddenly 
leaped  into  light,  and  Lucia  wanted  but  little  intuition 
to  guess  from  that  how  fierce  a  struggle  was  going  on 
within  him.  It  was  dramatic ;  it  was  one  of  the  wonder- 
ful ironies  of  life  that  things  should  happen  like  this. 


366  THE   CLIMBER 

If  it  had  been  anyone  else,  the  husband  of  a  stranger, 
of  an  acquaintance,  it  would  be  the  stale  old  triangle 
over  again.  But  about  this  there  was  something  bit- 
ing ;  the  scene  was  luridly  lit. 

That  flashed  in  and  out  of  her  brain  in  a  second,  and 
it  was  left  filled  with  the  reality  of  what  was  happen- 
ing, not  with  the  sense  of  its  artistic  interest.  And  it 
was  more  than  the  mere  reality  of  it  that  made  her 
raise  her  eyes  to  him,  that  drew  her  a  step  nearer  him, 
that  made  her  mouth  tremble  for  a  moment ;  it  was  the 
exquisiteness  of  that  which  suddenly  flamed  within  her, 
the  surprise  and  wonder  of  it.  She  thought  no  more 
of  Maud;  not  even  in  the  most  remote  cells  of  her 
brain  did  the  memory  of  her  friend  linger ;  she  thought 
not  even  of  herself;  she  thought  only  of  him.  It  was 
as  if  a  great  warm  wind,  full  of  the  odour  of  the  flowers 
above  which  it  had  passed,  full  of  their  colour  even, 
had  swept  into  the  passionless  calm  chamber  of  her 
soul,  filling  it,  vivifying  it,  making  it  sing.  At  that  mo- 
ment she  knew  she  was  in  love  with  him. 

1 '  Ah,  do  you  find  it  damnably  bad — too  ?  ' '  she  asked. 

Never  had  that  final  little  monosyllable  been  charged 
with  a  message  so  significant.  It  shouted,  it  trumpeted 
its  unmistakable  meaning  to  him.  But,  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, he  made  one  desperate  effort  to  stifle  it. 

"  No,  no;  it's  dreadful,  it  is  abominable,"  he  said. 
"  I — I  had  better  go  away.  Maud,  your  friend. 
Philippino ' ' 

Again,  as  when  Lucia  walked  across  the  pathway 
leading  to  the  cricket-field,  it  was  in  her  power  to 
choose.  Her  tongue  waited  its  orders  from  her  brain, 
it  would  do  as  it  was  told,  it  would  say  certain  words 
or  certain  other  words.  But  short  as  had  been  her 


THE   CLIMBER  367 

struggle  then,  it  was  shorter  now;  indeed,  it  was  no 
struggle.  All  her  life  she  had  lived  for  her  own  amuse- 
ment, her  own  greed  of  pleasure,  and  at  the  moment 
of  crisis  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  she  would  de- 
cide in  a  way  that  opposed  and  contradicted  the  whole 
trend  of  the  million  thoughts  and  impulses  that  had 
gone  to  make  up  the  history  of  her  grasping  days. 
Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  been  unselfish  or  loyal, 
even  when  the  cost  of  such  dealing  was  light;  it  was 
not  humanly  possible  that  now,  when  the  cost  was 
heavier  than  any  that  had  yet  been  demanded,  she 
should  act  in  a  manner  that  was  so  unnatural  to  her. 

But — here  the  calculating,  scheming  part  of  her 
brain  spoke  to  her  again — she  saw  that  the  impulse  that 
made  him  speak  like  that  was  strong.  The  struggle 
that  in  her  was  non-existent  was  desperate  for  him, 
and  while  one  word  from  her  to  encourage  his  loyalty, 
to  help  him  in  these  sore  straits,  would  have  ended  the 
matter,  the  wrong  word  to  encourage  the  other  side 
might  end  it  too.  That  which  he  longed  for,  and  strug- 
gled to  reject,  might  revolt  and  disgust  him  into  loyalty. 
She  had  to  appear  to  be  torn  by  the  same  firm  forces 
that  were  rending  him.  She,  who  was  so  immeasur- 
ably the  stronger  of  the  two,  had  also  to  appeal  to  him, 
womanlike. 

Again  she  drew  a  step  nearer  him,  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm. 

"  Yes,  dear,  it  is  dreadful,"  she  said.  "  But  the 
situation  has  made  itself;  we  haven't  made  it.  We 
must — we  must  be  sensible,  and  try  to  look  at  it  calmly, 
now  it  has  come,  not  lose  our  heads.  For  instance,  if 
you  went  away  to-morrow,  what  would  Maud  think? 
Only  to-day  she  was  saying  to  me  how  happy  you  were 


368  THE   CLIMBER 

here.  That  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  Besides,  Charlie, 
I  ask  you  to  stop  for  my  sake.  I — I  don't  know  what 
I  should  do  if  you  went  away  just  now.  I  might  do 
something  mad.  And  what  conceivable  harm  can  come 
if  you  stop!  Besides,  now  that  things  are — as  they 
are,  we  must  think  what  to  do,  not  act  rashly,  not — oh, 
Charlie,  Charlie,  it  is  dreadful,  but  it  is  wonderful.  I 
never  knew  till  now,  never,  never. ' ' 

It  was  done.  At  that  moment  the  essential  Rubicon 
was  passed.  He  had  known  perfectly  well  that  the  only 
possible  thing  for  him  to  do,  if  he  intended  to  be  an 
honest  man,  was  to  leave  at  once,  on  any  excuse  or  on 
no  excuse.  He  knew  also  that  the  situation  was  one 
about  which  any  argument,  any  weighing  of  the  pos- 
sible advantages  of  this  course  or  of  that,  was  futile. 
No  amount  of  reason  plunged  into  the  scale  ought  to 
affect  the  balance  by  a  featherweight.  And  he  yielded 
(and  knew  it)  not  to  the  reasons  she  gave,  but  to  her. 
The  reasons  were  specious  enough  to  appeal  to  common 
sense,  and  he  told  himself  that  it  was  to  these  he 
yielded.  But  he  knew  it  was  not  so ;  he  yielded  to  his 
own  desire  and  to  hers. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see,"  he  said.  "  We  must  think  over  it, 
talk  over  it,  see  what  is  wisest.  Lucia " 

She  raised  her  face  towards  him,  in  a  manner  that 
admitted  of  no  misinterpretation,  and  he  kissed 
her. 

They  stood  apart  and  in  silence  a  little,  then  voices 
and  laughter  from  the  dark  came  a  little  nearer. 

11  Come,"  she  said  quickly,  "  we  must  come  and  meet 
them.  We  must  be  quite  natural;  oh,  Charlie,  how 
easy!  I  am  so  gloriously  happy.  Just  say  you  are 
happy  too." 


THE   CLIMBER  369 

She  had  won ;  she  had  broken  down  the  main  defence. 
For  the  moment  she  had  banished  Maud  from  his 
mind  as  utterly  as  she  had  banished  her  from  her 
own. 

"  No,  not  happy,"  he  said.    "  Not  that." 

It  was  little  more  than  an  hour  afterwards  that 
Lucia  was  alone  in  her  bedroom,  and,  having  dismissed 
her  maid,  she  once  more,  as  on  a  night  at  Brixham  she 
had  lit  all  the  candles  she  could  find,  turned  on  every 
light,  controlled  by  a  whole  board  of  switches,  that  the 
room  held.  Ordinarily,  even  for  purposes  of  reading, 
it  was  sufficient  to  light  the  row  of  concealed  lamps 
that  lay  out  of  sight  behind  the  heavy  cornice  of  the 
ceiling ;  those  she  lit  now ;  she  lit  the  single  lamps  that 
illuminated  the  half-dozen  pictures  on  the  walls;  she 
lit  the  lights  by  the  bed,  the  lights  on  her  dressing- 
table,  the  lights  on  the  table  where  she  wrote.  Above 
the  washstand  another  blazed;  two  more  blazed  by  the 
chimneypiece ;  above  her  sofa  there  blazed  yet  another ; 
and  on  each  side  of  the  pier-glass  was  one.  And  the 
sun,  the  central  illumination,  was  herself,  beautiful  as 
she  had  never  been  before,  triumphant  as  never  before 
she  had  been,  less  content  than  ever,  and  for  that  rea- 
son immeasurably  happy. 

For  she  loved ;  she  had  never  known  that  before,  and 
the  splendour  of  it  made  the  galaxy  of  stars  burn  dim. 
She  knew  what  it  was  to  be  loved;  well  she  knew  the 
symptoms  and  stress  of  passion  in  another,  but  never 
until  now  had  she  herself  burned  with  that  noble  fever. 
For  months  now  she  knew  that  she  had  been  sickening 
for  it;  it  was  that,  she  felt  sure  (and  was  right)  that 
had  made  the  whole  world  and  her  success  therein  seem 


370  THE   CLIMBER 

stale  and  without  worth ;  and  now,  like  some  swift  and 
prodigious  plague,  it  had  fired  all  her  blood.  To  be 
loved  had  meant  so  little  to  her;  now  she  understood 
why,  and  it  was  because  she,  the  essential  she,  had  had 
no  part  in  it.  She  had  but  yielded  herself,  and  that  no 
more  than  physically,  to  alien  transports,  but  now  the 
memory  of  them  even  was  kindled  within  her,  since  in 
the  light  of  the  dazzling  knowledge  she  could  guess  what 
it  all  meant.  She  knew  now,  a  thing  that  had  been  un- 
intelligible to  her  before — how  her  presence,  her  prox- 
imity, affected  Edgar,  how  her  word,  her  smile,  her 
touch  held  promise  for  him  of  the  ineffable.  She  knew 
how  she  had  finished  for  him,  according  to  what  had 
seemed  to  her  at  the  time  mere  idle  babble,  the  sym- 
phony of  Schubert;  she  knew  why  he  looked  at  her 
with  burning  eyes,  why,  when  he  proposed  to  her  first 
on  the  empty  beach  at  Littlestone,  she  had  been  mo- 
mentarily frightened  at  what  seemed  to  her  a  savage 
thing.  Yes,  savage  it  was — she  understood  that  now — 
savage  and  incomparable.  All  else  was  tame  in  com- 
parison with  it. 

For  the  time — for  this  hour,  at  any  rate — the  con- 
sciousness that  she  loved,  and  was  loved  in  return,  was 
sufficient.  Even  though  this  great  illumination  lit  the 
past  passages  of  her  life  for  her,  so  that  she  knew  and 
saw  all  she  had  missed,  she  did  not  just  now  look  for- 
ward to  all  that  the  future  might  mean.  Life  at  last 
had  opened  its  ultimate  doors;  her  imagination  no 
longer  dropped  back,  as  it  had  done  so  often  of  late, 
because  it  could  invent  nothing  further  than  the  end- 
less repetition  of  what  she  had  already  achieved;  it 
dropped  back  now  because  it  was  dazzled  with  all  that 
was  laid  open  before  it,  at  all  that  was  undoubtedly 


THE   CLIMBER  371 

hers.  And  if  at  the  moment  when  she  had  chosen,  when 
she  had  hesitated  as  to  whether  she  should  let  friend- 
ship, loyalty,  all  those  bourgeois  virtues,  be  a  feather 
of  weight  in  the  turning  of  the  scale,  and  had  found 
they  weighed  not  even  that,  it  seemed  now  that  the 
very  existence  of  such  motives  helped  but  to  kindle 
the  fever  with  which  she  burned.  At  this  moment  it 
was  the  very  fact  that  Maud  was  her  friend,  that  Maud 
was  the  sweetest,  kindest  soul  in  the  world,  that  heaped 
fuel  on  this  conflagration  of  herself.  That  Edgar  loved 
her  was  but  another  faggot,  that  she  had  a  child  by 
him  enkindled  it,  and  that  now  in  the  house  was  Maud's 
child,  Charlie's  child — — 

That  was  fre'sh  material,  different  material.  Till 
that  came  into  her  mind  she  had  but  thought  of  Maud 
as  a  nonentity,  though  a  thing  to  be  burned,  to  be  used 
as  fuel.  But  at  this  she  took  a  different  view.  Maud, 
in  her  thought,  became  an  enemy,  one  who  had  got 
possessed  of  what  should  have  belonged  to  Lucia.  She 
had  dared  to  love  that  possession,  she  had  dared  to  use 
it.  Lucia  was  not  jealous  of  her — the  time  for  jealousy 
was  past;  jealousy  had  dropped  dead  the  moment  she 
had  just  beckoned  to  Charlie  out  there  on  the  terrace 
after  dinner;  it  was  absurd  to  be  jealous  of  one  who 
no  more  than  imagined  she  had  a  treasure  in  her  keep- 
ing. Yet  she  was  the  nominal  possessor  of  that  treas- 
ure, and  for  that  reason  Lucia  hated  her.  Hate,  at 
least,  was  in  her  heart,  but  she  covered  it  up.  She  let 
it  lie  there ;  it  did  not  matter.  It  was  so  unimportant 
compared  to  that  which  really  concerned  her.  All  else 
was  unimportant  likewise,  though  again  she  felt  a  cer- 
tain vague  hostility  when  she  thought  of  her  child.  For 
it  was  Edgar's. 


372  THE   CLIMBER 

The  hostility  was  not  quite  over  yet,  and  she  wanted 
to  be  done  with  such  emotions.  But  the  next  subject 
was  of  graver  import,  for  it  was  Edgar.  It  was  no 
trouble  to  forgive  Maud  for  what  she  had  done  in  de- 
frauding herself,  the  rightful  owner  by  the  title-deed 
of  love,  of  Charlie,  especially  since  now  her  pilfering — 
for  so  it  was — had  proved  so  abortive,  but  it  was  a 
different  matter  with  Edgar.  He  had  acquiesced  in 
Lucia's  cheating  herself,  had  made  her  suppose  that 
love  held  nothing  beyond  this  parody  of  married  life 
which  she  had  shared  with  him.  For  three  years  he 
had  led  her  to  think  that  this  was  all,  that  love  was  no 
more  than  these  stale  satisfactions.  She  had  believed 
him,  too;  that  made  his  crime,  not  her  credulity,  the 
greater.  And  what  had  he  done  for  her  in  comparison 
with  what  she  had  done  for  him!  She  had  given  him 
a  child,  she  had  given  him  the  position  he  was  power- 
less to  win  for  himself,  as  a  centre  of  all  that  was  most 
intelligent  in  this  stupid  life;  she  had  given  him  the 
realization  of  his  utmost  ideal  of  love.  And  to  her  now 
that  was  like  the  cracking  of  an  empty  eggshell,  for 
there  was  no  meat  within.  And  in  return  for  all  that 
she  had  done  for  him,  he  seemed  to  have  done  so  little. 
Once  he  had  said  that  he  wished  he  had  been  a  stone- 
breaker  opposite  Fair  View,  for  if  that  stone-breaker 
had  been  he,  they  would  have  been  man  and  wife.  In 
the  light  of  the  new  knowledge,  Lucia  wished  she  had 
married  a  stone-breaker,  provided  only  that  she  loved 
him.  At  the  moment,  she  would  have  sacrificed  all  she 
had  won,  all  she  had  striven  for,  to  be  the  wife  of  the 
man  she  loved.  She  would  cook  the  dinner,  she  would 
darn  the  stockings,  provided  only  that — that  she  could 
suckle  his  child.  She  had  never  known  what  that 


THE   CLIMBER  373 

meant,  though  she  had  done  it.  She  had  done  it  in 
somnambulism,  as  it  were.  But  Maud  knew,  and  again 
she  hated  Maud  because  Maud  had  what  she  had 
missed. 

And  the  irony  of  it !  What  a  superb  farce,  as  remote 
from  reasonable  reality  as  was  the  life  she  had  led  at 
Fair  View.  For  the  moment  she  felt  that  destiny  must 
be  playing  some  trick  with  her,  making  her  dance  like 
a  marionette  on  wires  of  her  own  imagination.  And 
then  she  knew  that  the  truth  was  the  direct  opposite 
of  what  that  image  conveyed;  she  knew  that  all  the 
rest  of  her  life  up  till  now  had  been  the  dance  of  a 
marionette,  of  a  wooden  jointed  toy.  She  had  danced 
to  tunes  that  had  no  melody  and  no  rhythm.  She  had 
listened  to  a  music  that  had  no  heart  behind  it ;  she  had 
grinned  in  answer  to  smiles  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand, had  given  tender  and  soulless  replies  to  whis- 
pered words  that  meant  nothing  to  her.  But  now  she 
was  awake  and  understood.  All  that  had  been  tuneless 
and  senseless  was  made  melodious  and  intelligible ;  in- 
stead of  masks  she  saw  the  faces  beneath,  and  a  mean- 
ing leaped  like  a  lightning  flash  into  those  ardours 
which  had  seemed  so  abortive,  and  the  thought  of  which 
now  grew  suddenly  insupportable. 

The  tingling  ecstasy  which  had  possessed  her  slowly 
subsided  at  the  thought  of  this;  she  wanted  the  blaze 
of  the  electric  light  no  longer,  and  she  moved  swiftly 
across  to  the  door,  and  put  out  the  whole  of  the  il- 
lumination she  had  made  half  an  hour  before,  so  that 
the  room  was  left  in  darkness  but  for  the  faint  remote 
light  that  filtered  in  through  the  window  from  the 
starlit  sky.  Outside  the  winds  were  still,  and  the  moon 
not  yet  risen,  made  dove-colour  in  the  East.  To  the 


374  THE   CLIMBER 

south  an  amber-coloured  light  showed  where  lay  the 
hollow  in  which  Brixham  nestled,  and  just  above  it, 
though  low  on  the  horizon,  was  a  layer  of  thunder- 
cloud, from  which  every  now  and  then  there  winked  a 
flash  of  very  distant  lightning.  But  the  storm  was  far 
away,  no  faintest  rumble  of  thunder  was  audible. 
Here,  too,  from  the  house  itself,  no  sound  disturbed 
her  vigil ;  the  lights  in  the  drawing-room  below,  which, 
when  she  came  into  her  room,  had  thrown  their  oblong 
of  illumination  far  out  over  the  terrace,  had  been  put 
out,  though  it  was  still  nearly  an  hour  before  midnight. 
And,  parenthetically,  she  wondered  why  everybody  else 
had  gone  so  early  to  bed;  probably  the  men  had  not. 
Very  likely  they  had  moved  to  the  smoking-room. 
Charlie,  at  least,  always  sat  up  late. 

Yes,  insupportable.  Knowing  now  what  love  meant, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  acting  some  dread- 
ful parody  all  these  years,  acting  it  like  a  child,  with- 
out knowledge  of  what  it  was  that  was  being  travestied 
and  degraded.  Base  enough,  from  all  standards  of 
loyalty  and  friendship,  as  had  been  her  acceptance,  her 
wooing  of  the  love  of  her  friend's  husband,  it  did  not 
seem  so  base  as  the  acceptance  of  the  love  that  was 
legitimately  hers.  And  at  that  moment  had  Charlie 
come  in,  and  simply  told  her  to  come  away  with  him, 
it  is  probable  that  she  would  have  cast  all  considera- 
tions aside,  with  scarcely  more  effort  than  it  had  cost 
her  to  cast  the  thought  of  Maud  aside,  and  would  have 
gone.  For  the  sake  of  this  love,  base  and  treacherous 
though  it  was,  she  would  have  done  a  desperate  thing, 
which,  though  heaven  knows  it  would  not  have  made 
it  one  whit  more  justifiable,  would  at  least  have  had 
some  of  the  spirit  of  sacrifice  in  it. 


THE   CLIMBER  375 

But  morning  brought  cooler  counsel,  infinitely  more 
sensible,  infinitely  less  fine,  for  it  was  only  for  a  little 
while  in  the  first  wonder  of  love  that  she  was  capable 
even  of  such  fineness  as  is  necessary  to  run  away  with 
a  friend's  husband.  For  a  little  while  last  night  she 
had  forgotten  that  she  lived  in  the  world,  a  charming 
place,  but  in  which  it  was  not  possible  to  live,  if  you 
chose  to  do  these  splendid  and  romantic  things.  That 
which  appeared  insupportable  the  night  before  would 
have  still  to  be  tolerated ;  it  was  still  just  as  necessary 
as  ever  to  make  her  husband  believe  that  the  love  he 
lavished  on  her  was  returned.  He  must  never  suspect 
— we  are  following  Lucia  into  the  profundity  of  her 
shallowness — he  must  never  suspect  that  she  failed 
to  find  all  he  found  in  their  marriage;  still  less,  of 
course,  must  he  suspect  that  she  had  found  what  he  was 
powerless  to  give  her.  And  soberly  and  literally  it  was 
true  that  in  this  resolve  she  was  able 'to  detect  a  sort  of 
heroism.  She  would  not  wreck  his  life,  she  would  not 
wreck  Maud's,  by  acting  up  to  what  she  called  the  finest 
instincts  of  her  nature.  What  she  did  not  add  was  that 
she  was  unprepared  to  wreck  her  own  life  by  so 
emphatic  an  assertion  of  the  paramount  claim  of 
love. 

Already  she  felt  as  if  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  do  this, 
and  though  she  very  seldom  cried,  her  eyes  grew  dim 
at  the  thought  of  her  own  heroism. 

But  she  did  not  renounce  the  love  that  had  thus  sud- 
denly dawned  on  her.  It  would  be  wicked — to  herself 
she  used  that  identical  word — to  crush  all  that  was 
finest  in  her  nature.  Self-deception,  it  may  be  hoped, 
touched  bottom  there,  and  her  self-deception  was 
triumphant. 


376  THE   CLIMBER 

It  is  hard  to  follow  the  working  of  so  superficial  and 
trivial  a  soul.  A  hero,  though  most  of  us  are  cast  in  no 
heroic  mould,  is  easy  to  understand;  he  casts  all  but 
the  worthiest  aside,  and  follows  that.  Nor  would  it  be 
difficult  to  follow  the  frankly  worthless,  those  who  have 
never  the  slightest  impulse  towards  a  level  that  is 
higher  than  their  normal  one.  Nor,  till  now,  was  it 
difficult  to  follow  the  uniform  selfishness  of  our  poor 
climber.  But  at  this  moment  the  puzzling  and  the  in- 
evitable thing  happened;  love,  the  finest  impulse  she 
had  ever  known,  drove  her,  by  force  of  these  years  of 
self-seeking,  into  the  meanest  course  that  she  had  yet 
pursued.  She  did  not,  in  justice  to  her,  plan  an  in- 
trigue, but  for  the  sake  of  love  she  planned  to  deceive 
those  who  best  loved  and  trusted  her,  in  order  that  she 
should  not  be  compelled  to  sacrifice  anything.  Of  the 
love  that  recognizes  the  stern  validity  of  a  moral  code 
she  was,  of  course,  hopelessly  incapable;  of  the  love 
that  will  reck  nothing  of  the  moral  code,  defy  conven- 
tion, stamp  on  friendship,  repudiate  obligations,  she 
had  been  capable,  though  only  for  a  moment.  What 
she  was  completely  capable  of  was  a  projected  course 
of  careful  deceit,  in  order — though  she  made  no  plans 
— to  give  love  a  chance.  She  did  not  put  it  so  brutally 
to  herself;  indeed  so  brutal  a  statement  of  the  real 
state  of  her  mind  never  occurred  to  her.  She  said 
only  that  she  would  not  wreck  the  lives  of  others.  And 
even  that  to  her  microscopic  soul  appeared  an  immen- 
sity. She  deliberately,  because  she  was  so  self-sacrific- 
ing, saddled  herself  with  no  end  of  difficulties  and  ob- 
stacles. And  at  this  moment,  when  she  was  meanest, 
she  appeared  to  herself  to  be  more  heroic  than  she  had 
ever  been  before. 


THE   CLIMBER  377 

Above  all,  then,  it  was  important  to  be  careful,  to 
make  the  insupportable  appear  the  desirable,  to  make 
treachery  robe  itself  in  the  garb  of  loyalty  and  friend- 
ship. On  the  whole,  after  a  cup  of  tea,  she  felt 
up  to  it.  Madge  was  coming  down  to-day,  too.  Madge 
knew  so  much;  Lucia  would  try  to  learn  about  these 
things. 

Her  bath  was  waiting  for  her  next  door,  and  she  got 
out  of  bed  to  go  to  it.  She  always  took  her  bath  dead- 
cold,  whether  summer  blazed  or  winter  froze,  for  there 
was  nothing  so  sane,  so  invigorating  as  that  cool 
plunge.  Sometimes  on  hot  mornings  she  would  stand 
by  her  bath,  delaying  the  delightful  moment,  and  look- 
ing at  the  wavering  reflection  of  herself  in  the  water, 
and  this  she  did  to-day.  The  window  of  her  bathroom 
was  wide  open,  and  the  warm  breeze  that  entered  was 
exquisite  to  the  skin.  Edgar  always  had  a  hot  bath 
in  the  morning,  even  in  Egypt,  in  obedience  to  medical 
suggestion.  That  was  so  characteristic  of  him — so 
warm,  so  comfortable.  He  had  taken  to  a  hot  bath 
after  an.  attack  of  lumbago  some  years  before;  during 
the  few  days  in  which  he  was  incapable  of  movement 
he  had  read  the  greater  part  of  Plato's  "  Republic." 
And,  with  a  sudden  little  laugh,  partly  of  derision, 
partly  of  impatience,  she  stepped  into  the  long  white 
bath. 

She  almost  sang  to  herself  in  the  briskness  and  re- 
juvenation of  the  moment.  How  good  her  sponge 
smelled,  with  the  reminiscence  of  the  salt  still  in  it! 
How  good  was  the  rough  towel,  and  the  glow  it 
brought!  How  delicious  the  cold  marble  floor  of  the 
bathroom.  And  how  warm  she  was,  how  vigorous,  how 
competent.  Indeed,  it  was  little  wonder  that  Edgar 


378  THE   CLIMBER 

loved  her ;  it  was  little  wonder  that  she  too  loved.  She 
was  made  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  this  young,  vital, 
exquisite  thing. 

It  was  necessary,  of  course,  to  have  a  long  sensible 
talk  with  Charlie,  since  it  was  for  that  reason  (among 
others)  that  she  had  made  him  stop  here,  instead  of 
following  his  notion  that  he  had  better  go  away.  No 
doubt  the  night  would  have  brought  better  counsel  to 
him,  as  it  had  to  her,  and  he  would  see  that  they  must 
be  calm  and  sensible  and  — just  see  what  happened.  It 
was  always  necessary  to  wait  on  events ;  circumstances 
might  occur,  circumstances  might  occur.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  whole  falseness,  the  unreality  of  such 
imaginings,  burst  upon  her.  There  were  no  circum- 
stances or  events  to  wait  upon ;  it  was  no  good  to  make 
sensible  plans,  to  be  calm  and  judicious.  She  was  in 
love,  and  he  loved  her.  Other  people,  no  doubt,  would 
have  to  be  deceived,  but  where  was  the  use  of  attempt- 
ing to  deceive  herself  over  the  central  fact  of  the  situa- 
tion? The  one  absolute  necessity  for  the  time,  indeed, 
was  that  both  Edgar  and  Maud  should  be  deceived. 
Otherwise — here  Lucia's  reflections  were  completely 
characteristic — their  lives  would  be  wrecked.  And 
with  this  convincing  and  comfortable  piece  of  hypoc- 
risy she  went  down  to  breakfast. 

The  day  passed  without  any  opportunity  for  a  con- 
versation, sensible  or  otherwise,  with  Charlie,  for  he 
had  a  golfing  engagement  which  took  him  away  directly 
after  breakfast.  She  had,  indeed,  but  a  couple  of 
words  with  him,  and  that  quite  in  public,  when  he  said 
to  her  across  the  table : 


THE   CLIMBER  379 

"  It's  too  hot  for  golf;  Lucia,  do  be  clever  and  invent 
an  excuse  for  me,  so  that  I  needn't  go." 

Her  eyes  met  his,  and  she  read  that  which  underlay 
the  commonplace  inquiry.  She  shook  her  head. 

"  Never,"  she  exclaimed.  "  You  must  always  keep 
little  engagements.  Big  engagements  are  another 
question.  But  little  trivial  engagements  are  sacred. 
It's  like  taking  care  of  the  pence,  and  leaving  the 
pounds  to  take  care  of  themselves." 

Her  answer  was  trivial,  too,  but  it  was  not  difficult 
for  him  to  read  into  it  the  significance  she  meant  it  to 
bear.  And  quick  as  lightning  the  love  glance  shot  from 
eye  to  eye. 

Edgar  sent  a  telegram  that  morning  to  say  he  would 
be  able  to  get  down  earlier  than  usual,  and  Lucia,  in 
the  spirit  of  keeping  little  engagements — though  in- 
deed she  had  made  none  in  this  particular — drove  down 
to  Brixham  to  meet  him,  as  his  train  did  not  stop  at 
Brayton,  and  was  on  the  platform  when  it  got  in. 

He  flushed  with  pleasure  on  seeing  her. 

"  But  this  is  too  delightful,"  he  said.  "  Have  you 
been  shopping  in  Brixham,  dear?  ' 

Lucia  smiled  charmingly  at  him. 

* '  Indeed  I  have  not, ' '  she  said.  * '  I  came  in  simply 
to  meet  you.  Does  that  seem  to  you  such  strange  con- 
duct? " 

11  It  is  perfectly  charming  conduct,  anyhow,"  said 
he.  ' '  And  I  bring  you  good  news. ' ' 

"  Oh,  what?    No,  I  can't  guess.    Tell  me  quickly." 

* '  The  House  is  going  to  rise,  after  all,  next  week.  I 
shall,  indeed,  have  to  go  up  only  on  Tuesday.  Then  I 
am  free." 


380  THECLIMBEB 

It  was  perhaps  a  good  thing  that  Lucia  did  not  try 
to  guess ;  she  would  never  have  thought  of  that  as  being 
good  news.  But  she  simulated  a  suitable  enchantment. 

'  *  And  we  must  make  our  plans  for  the  autumn, ' '  he 
said.  "  The  reports  from  the  moors  are  dreadfully 
bad ;  there  will  be  next  to  no  shooting.  What  shall  we 
do?  Shall  we  stop  quietly  here?  Or  shall  we  go  on 
the  yacht?  We  have  never  yet  been  north  in  it.  You 
would  like  to  see  the  Norwegian  fiords,  would  you 
not?  " 

' '  Ah,  you  are  too  good  to  me, ' '  said  she.  * '  You  are 
always  thinking  of  what  I  should  like.  Let  us  anyhow 
stay  on  here  a  little.  It  has  been  the  greatest  success. 
Nobody  wants  to  go,  and  Charlie  has  announced  that 
he  isn't  going  unless  turned  out.  Then  in  Novem- 
ber I  should  really  rather  like  a  few  weeks  in  London. 
I'm  sure  I  could  make  quite  a  gay  little  informal  sea- 
son. You  see,  I  missed  a  good  deal  of  the  summer. ' ' 

"And  the  Infanto?  "  said  Edgar.  "Surely  the 
country  is  better  for  a  baby. ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  would  leave  the  Infanto  here,"  said 
Lucia. 

This  somehow  rather  took  away  the  pleasure  Edgar 
had  felt  when  he  found  that  Lucia  had  come  in  simply 
to  meet  his  train.  He  had  often  felt  that  their  child 
was  not  to  Lucia  even  that  which  it  was  to  him;  the 
fact  of  being  a  father  was  greater  to  him  than  was 
the  far  more  tremendous  affair  of  motherhood  to  her. 
But  Lucia,  who  had  spoken  thoughtlessly  and  genu- 
inely, saw  her  mistake  before  his  silence  had  become 
long. 

"  You  see,  the  Infanto  would  not  have  to  come  on 
the  yacht  with  us,  if  we  adopted  your  plan,"  she  said, 


THE   CLIMBER  381 

with  excellent  common  sense, ' '  and  indeed  ' ' — this  was 
a  bright  idea — "  I  should  not  like  to  be  cut  off  from 
news  of  him  as  we  should  be  if  we  made  a  cruise.  Oh, 
he  is  getting  too  adorable.  He  hates  ugly  things  al- 
ready; he  is  your  true  child,  dear.  He  can't  bear  nurse, 
and  he  adores  the  nursery-maid,  who  is  charmingly 
pretty.  Oh,  the  Infanto  is  beginning  early;  there  are 
many  signs  that  he  will  flutter  the  dovecotes.  I  do  hope 
he  will;  I  should  like  my  son  to  break  every  eligible 
heart  in  London. ' ' 

This  was  not  a  strictly  moral  sentiment,  but  it  served 
to  interrupt  Edgar's  rather  serious  train  of  thought. 

"  So  that  he  will  be  a  true  child  of  yours,  too,"  he 
8  aid. 

Lucia  always  appreciated  any  tribute  to  her  charms, 
whoever  offered  it. 

"  Oh,  Edgar,  don't  flirt  with  me,"  she  said.  "  I  flut- 
tered one — what  is  the  masculine  for  dovecote?  And 
was  not  that  sufficient  ?  And  here  we  are  at  the  dove- 
cote I  allude  to,"  she  added,  rather  neatly,  as  they 
passed  through  the  lodge-gates. 

But  his  responsible  mind  went  back  to  what  she  had 
said  before. 

"  You  talk  the  most  delicious  nonsense,  my  darling," 
he  said,  "  and  you  talk  it  so  well  that  it  seems  as  if 
you  meant  it  for  sense.  For  instance,  when  you  said 
you  hoped  he  would  break  every  eligible  heart.  True, 
I  replied  in  the  same  daffing  strain.  How  excellent 
some  of  these  Scotch  words  are,  though  that,  curiously 
enough,  is  a  Saxon  root !  But,  to  stop  daffing,  what  a 
responsibility  is  ours,  what  a  sweet  and  serious  re- 
sponsibility!  " 

Edgar  was  looking  straight  out  in  front  of  him,  and 


382  THE   CLIMBER 

Lucia  made  the  archdeacon  face  all  to  herself.  She 
knew  there  was  more  to  come;  when  Edgar's  periods 
began  like  that  they  were  not  soon  overpast.  Often  be- 
fore to-day  she,  who  had  the  most  excellent  memory, 
would  repeat  them  to  Charlie,  and  being  excellent  in 
mimicry  also,  she  often  made  him  speechless  with  ap- 
preciative laughter.  But  now  she  could  never  again 
laugh  with  him  at  these  pomposities ;  she  could  not  even 
laugh  herself.  They  were  among  the  insupportable 
things,  which  must  continue  to  be  tolerated. 

Edgar  cleared  his  throat ;  he  had  made  an  admirable 
speech  in  the  House  only  yesterday,  but  he  felt  more 
deeply  on  this  subject  than  on  the  question  of  small 
holdings. 

"  I  have  sometimes  wondered,  my  Lucia,"  he  said, 
11  if  you  ever  really  see  the  responsibility  which  our 
love  has  entailed.  Nothing  affects  a  man's  subsequent 
life  more  than  do  the  earliest  impressions  of  his  child- 
hood, and  as  soon  as  the  boy  begins  to  receive  con- 
scious impressions  from  outside,  it  will  become  our  sa- 
cred duty  to  see  that  those  impressions  are  all  noble, 
all  fine.  Beauty,  not  only  physical,  natural  beauty,  but 
moral  beauty,  must  surround  him.  Harsh  temper  must 
never  come  near  him,  nor  meanness  nor  falsity.  How 
our  horizons  have  extended  since  that  wonderful  day 
in  June  when  our  child  was  born  to  us !  How  tremen- 
dous have  the  issues  of  our  love  for  each  other  become ! 
We  must  often  talk  of  these  things,  for  they  fill  my 
thoughts  continually.  Indeed,  I  have  planned  a  little 
dialogue,  which  I  have  begun  to  write,  called  '  The 
Child. '  The  two  speakers,  of  course,  are  the  father  and 
mother,  both  of  the  class  to  which  we  belong,  the  class, 
that,  however  much  Socialists  rave,  creates  the  nation. 


THE   CLIMBER  383 

They  just  sit  and  talk,  as  evening  falls,  over  the  future 
of  their  child,  which  so  largely  depends  on  their  up- 
bringing of  it.  The  dialogue  should  begin  lightly,  as 
our  dialogue  began  just  now,  and  deepen  till  it  strikes 
roots  to  the  very  heart  of  things.  We  shall  be  able  to 
show  that  we,  at  least,  realize  our  responsibilities.  For 
the  England  of  thirty  years  onward  will  be  the  England 
that  we  parents  of  to-day  make  it.  You  must  help  me, 
dear,  with  the  writing  of  this.  Give  me  the  quick,  vivid 
touches  that  you  can  so  perfectly  supply,  and  it  should 
have  an  enormous  circulation.  The  proceeds  I  would 
give  to  some  home. ' ' 

This  was  the  best  that  Lucia  had  ever  heard.  She 
felt  she  must  tell  somebody — Madge,  perhaps,  who  was 
coming  that  evening,  and  in  the  company  of  Madge 
even  Charlie  might  be  allowed  to  hear  it.  But  there 
was  more  yet.  She  could  not  make  the  archdeacon 
face  again,  for  Edgar  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Well,  blithe  spirit?  "  he  said. 

That  was  inimitable.  But  it  was  also  almost 
insupportable.  She  had  to  summon  her  scattered 
forces. 

"It  is  too  interesting,"  she  said.  "  You  plan  it 
magically.  Oh,  Edgar,  shut  yourself  up  all  afternoon, 
and  begin.  Or  have  you  begun  ?  ' 

* '  Ah,  not  without  your  help, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You  must 
tell  me  all  that  a  mother  feels,  you  can  tell  me  that. 
And  that  must  be  instinct,  underlying  all  the  mother's 
part  of  the  dialogue.  I  don't  think  the  idea  has  ever 
been  tried  before." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  house. 

"  Never,  as  far  as  I  am  aware,"  said  Lucia.  And 
the  deadliness  of  it  all  closed  in  round  her.  She  was 


384  THE   CLIMB  EK 

incapable  of  the  humorous  view  at  that  moment;  the 
tragic  reality  swallowed  up  all  else. 

Evening  brought  a  few  more  people,  coming  to  stay 
from  the  Friday  till  the  Monday,  but  all  that  had 
hitherto  stimulated  Lucia  seemed  to  have  failed  her. 
It  appeared  of  little  consequence  who  came  and  who 
did  not;  the  coming  and  going  was  of  the  stale  old 
order.  It  was  so  easy  now  to  set  a  party  going,  to  make 
all  her  guests  enjoy  themselves ;  a  little  leaning  on  the 
table  with  her  elbows,  a  little  shouted  talk  to  right  and 
left,  with  a  cheap  epigram  or  two  thrown  in  did  all 
that.  She — and  her  reputation  for  saying  brilliant 
things  was  not  entirely  undeserved — had  now  only  to 
say  that  Beethoven's  Pastoral  Symphony  was  a  de- 
plorable performance  to  find  someone  else  who  would 
back  up  this  or  any  other  preposterous  criticism;  she 
had  only  to  say  that  Sargent  painted  hands  more  won- 
derfully than  hands  were  even  painted  yet,  to  make  a 
focus  of  eager  talk,  in  which  Edgar  joined  from  the 
other  end  of  the  table.  She  herself  had  just  been 
painted  by  that  artist,  and  she  had  before  now  likened 
the  presentment  of  her  hands  to  bunches  of  bananas. 
But  it  answered  just  as  well  to  say  that  his  chirography 
was  inimitable.  Edgar  liked  critical  conversation  and 
discussion,  and  she  wanted  to  please  him  in  little 
things,  and  in  particular  she  wanted  him  to  be  content, 
at  ease.  But  what  she  said  signified  nothing.  Noth- 
ing signified  except  that  young  merry  face  of  the  man 
who  sat  two  or  three  places  away.  He,  too,  was  doing 
the  right  thing,  talking  eagerly,  nonsensically.  Oc- 
casionally she  caught  a  sentence  of  his,  he  occasionally 
caught  one  of  hers,  and  each  listened  only  to  the  other. 


THE   CLIMBEK  385 

"  Hands — yes,  hands,"  she  was  saying;  "  and 
people  say  '  only  hands.'  Why,  hands  are  the  first 
things  one  judges  by  in  one's  estimate  of  a  person. 
Eyes,  mouth,  face  are  really  much  less  characteristic." 

At  the  same  moment  Charlie  finished  some  ridicu- 
lous remarks. 

4 '  So  if  you  don't  draw  the  line  somewhere,  where 
are  you  to  draw  the  line  ?  "  he  asked  dramatically. 

Then  their  eyes  met,  and  for  one  second  each  was 
conscious  of  nothing  except  the  other.  Everything  else 
reeled  into  nothingness ;  only  one  thing  was  real.  She 
had  seen  nothing  of  him  all  day,  had  but  interchanged 
one  word  with  him  at  breakfast.  She  leaned  forward. 

"  Charlie,  you  deserter,"  she  said,  "  I  haven't  set 
eyes  on  you.  But  you  appear  content  with  life,  so  I 
suppose  you  won  at  golf.  That  makes  a  man  more 
fatuously  cheerful  than  anything  else." 

11  Cheerful  I  am,"  he  said;  "  fatuous  I  object  to. 
Anybody  would.  Am  I  fatuous  I  "  he  asked  Mouse. 

Edgar  looked  about  him  with  an  air  of  pleased  pro- 
prietorship. His  guests,  the  conversation,  the  general 
air  of  the  evening,  were  all  very  much  to  his  taste. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  new  splendour 
in  his  wife's  face  to-night,  a  radiance  that  outshone 
herself.  He  could  not  quite  catch  what  she  said  to 
Charlie,  nor  did  he  hear  Charlie's  answer,  but  he,  too, 
was  kindled  beyond  his  wont.  And  then  the  moment 
afterwards  each  of  them  shot  a  quick,  stealthy  glance 
at  him.  He  scarcely  knew  that  he  noticed  it;  it  was 
only  afterwards  that  he  remembered  having  done  so. 

The  barbarous  English  custom,  or  so  Lucia  called  it, 
of  men  remaining  in  the  dining-room  to  drink  wine 
after  dinner  did  not  prevail  in  her  house,  and  she  had 


386'  THE   CLIMBER 

but  just  got  into  the  drawing-room  when  Charlie 
strolled  up  to  her.  She  welcomed  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  deserter?  "  she  said. 

"  But  I  have  come  back,"  he  said,  "  voluntarily. 
Am  I  to  be  punished?  ' 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  are  condemned  to  take  a 
little  stroll  with  me.  Will  you?  " 

Then  quite  suddenly  she  heard  that  her  own  voice 
was  trembling  and  barely  audible.  Edgar  was  stand- 
ing close,  and  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Is  it  wise  to  go  out?  "  he  said.  "  Have  you  not  a 
little  hoarseness  to-night?  ' 

1 *  Oh,  grandmamma,  grandmamma !  '  said  she. 
1 '  Come  out,  Chubby.  I  love  walking  in  the  dusk.  One 
never  quite  knows  what  is  going  to  happen.  Something 
may  jump  out  upon  you  from  the  bushes. ' ' 

As  so  often  before,  she  took  Charlie 's  arm,  and  talk- 
ing and  laughing,  they  went  out  into  the  night. 
Though  more  often  than  not,  as  last  night,  many  of 
the  party  strolled  out  of  doors  after  dinner,  it  so  hap- 
pened that  now  nobody  followed  Lucia  and  her  com- 
panion. It  had  been  oppressively  hot  all  day,  and  with 
sunset  a  bank  of  clouds  had  begun  to  rise  out  of  the 
south,  and  had  spread  over  the  whole  sky,  so  that  but 
little  light  filtered  through.  It  was  just  possible  to  see 
the  grey  glimmer  of  the  garden  walk  and  distinguish 
it  from  the  darker  hue  of  the  grass ;  it  was  possible,  but 
scarcely  more  than  that,  to  distinguish  the  black  out- 
line of  the  trees  against  the  sky.  And  as  they  stepped 
out  of  the  light  into  the  hot  thick  darkness,  it  was  as 
if  they  had  stepped  into  another  world  altogether, 
where  there  was  no  one  but  themselves.  All  thought  of 
Edgar,  of  Maud,  all  remembrance  of  other  things 


THE   CLIMBER 

faded ;  all  that  liad  any  significance  was  out  here  in  the 
darkness. 

11  We  must  not  stop  out  long,"  said  Lucia,  as  they 
stepped  from  the  terrace  on  to  the  path.  * '  Edgar  will 
wonder. ' ' 

Then  the  darkness  enfolded  them,  and  Edgar's  won- 
der troubled  her  no  more.  And  neither  of  them  spoke 
again,  they  who  were  so  ready  with  quick  speech.  In 
absolute  silence  they  went  gently  up  the  walk  past  the 
long  lighted  house,  past  the  rose  garden  on  the  left, 
from  which  there  came  the  heavy  fragrance  of  sleeping 
flowers,  past  the  lake  with  its  islands  of  water-lilies, 
up  to  the  gate  at  the  end  which  gave  on  to  the  fields. 
Surely  there  was  some  excitement  abroad  that  night, 
the  presage  of  thunder  perhaps  in  the  air,  for  by  the 
gate  the  cattle  were  standing  huddled  together,  when 
they  should  have  been  asleep,  and  stirring  uneasily. 
Both  of  them  noticed  that,  yet  still  neither  spoke.  It 
was  senseless  to  speak  of  trivial  things,  and  there  was 
no  need,  no  cause,  to  speak  of  anything  (for  there  was 
only  one)  which  was  not  trivial.  And  in  the  silence 
and  in  their  speechlessness  and  proximity  the  spell 
worked,  growing  every  moment  mightier,  the  divine 
and  infamous  spell  that  bound  them — divine  because 
love  cannot  be  other  than  that ;  infamous  because  it  im- 
plied treachery  and  deceit  to  all  that  to  both  of  them 
should  have  been  most  sacred. 

Mightily  it  worked,  and  yet  no  word  passed,  no  hint 
even  of  a  word,  and  no  caress.  Once  Lucia  gave  a 
great  long  whisper  of  a  sigh,  and  to  answer  it  she  felt 
his  arm  tremble.  Yet,  though  nothing  was  said,  every 
moment  the  sequel  grew  toward  inevitability.  Force 
that  was  potent  established  itself  in  hearts  that  were 


388  THE   CLIMBER 

but  too  willing  to  grant  that  it  was  inevitable.  He,  it 
is  true,  had  struggled  to  some  extent,  had  known,  any- 
how, an  impulse  that  was  not  wholly  base.  But  no  such 
thing  had  dwelt  for  even  the  shortest  moment  in 
Lucia's  heart. 

They  stood  there  at  the  end  of  the  walk  for  a  few 
seconds,  hearing  rather  than  seeing  the  agitation  and 
movement  of  the  cattle,  and  then,  as  by  one  will  that 
went  through  them  both,  they  turned  and  walked  back 
towards  the  house.  Still  no  word  passed  between 
them;  for  him  the  light  pressure  of  her  hand  on  his 
arm  meant  more  than  could  be  said ;  for  her  the  sense 
of  the  arm  beneath  his  coat  was  sufficient.  It  was  he ; 
she  could  not  get  closer  to  him  by  speech. 

Again  by  silent  consent  they  stopped  just  outside  the 
oblong  of  light  cast  through  the  open  French  window 
of  the  drawing-room  on  to  the  path. 

"  Ah,  it  has  been  divine,  Charlie,"  said  she.  "  But 
—but  we  must  talk  about  it.  It  can't  go  on  like  this. 
I  can't  bear  it." 

"  I  can't  bear  it,"  said  he. 

Swiftly  she  drew  his  head  down  to  hers. 

"  We  must  go  in,"  she  said. 

Edgar  was  sitting  in  a  chair  close  to  the  window  as 
they  stepped  into  the  light.  For  one  second,  as  a  fare- 
well to  that  long  silence  of  love,  they  looked  at  each 
other.  Then  Lucia  saw  him,  saw,  too,  that  he  was  look- 
ing at  them,  and  her  face  utterly  changed,  became  like 
herself  again.  But  what  he  had  seen  was  the  face  of  a 
woman  he  felt  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"  Ah,  it  is  hot — hot,"  she  said.  "  Charlie  and  I  are 
exhausted.  The  sky  has  come  down  to  the  earth. 
Something  is  going  to  burst ;  I  feel  it  must  burst." 


THE   CLIMBER  389 

Suddenly  the  huge  still  blackness  outside  was  re- 
solved into  a  great  sheet  of  flame.  For  a  moment 
flower-beds,  trees,  grass,  the  lake,  the  great  downs, 
were  presented  with  more  than  the  vividness  of  noon- 
day. Simultaneously  the  thunder  cracked  and  bellowed 
with  an  appalling  reverberation. 

For  a  moment  Lucia  held  her  hands  before  her  eyes, 
dazzled  and  blinded  by  that  hellish  glare ;  then  she  ran 
into  the  drawing-room. 

"  Ah,  I  am  frightened!  "  she  cried.  "  It  had  been 
so  still,  so  silent  I  " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"T>UT  a  miracle- worker,  no  less  than  a  miracle- 

••-'  worker,"  said  Madge.  "  I  always  knew  that  you 
would  astonish  our  weak  minds.  I  feel  like  the  Queen 
of  Sheba." 

Lucia  laughed. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  she  said,  "  because  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  was  rather  paltry.  She  got  carried 
away  by  a  Semitic  and  ostentatious  display  of  wealth. 
But  you  haven't  explained  why  you  feel  like  her." 

"  Because  there  is  no  need.  But  if  you  like  explana- 
tions the  month  is  November,  and  we  ought  all  to  be 
tucked  up  in  our  horrible  country-houses,  being  privi- 
ledged  to  dine  every  evening  with  a  lot  of  sleepy  men 
who  have  been  shooting  or  hunting  all  day,  and  want 
to  go  to  bed.  Instead,  here  we  all  are  in  the  most 
civilized  place  in  England,  behaving  exactly  as  if  it 
was  June,  though  luckily  it  is  not  so  hot.  It  is  a 
miracle,  and  a  very  nice  one.  Pheasants,  or  rather  the 
necessity  of  killing  them,  have  been  the  curse  of  my 
life.  It  is  so  like  England  to  perpetuate  a  breed  of 
creatures  merely  for  the  purpose  of  slaughtering  them. 
It  is  like  bringing  murderers  and  would-be  suicides 
back  to  life,  that  they  may  be  up  to  being  hanged. 
Foxes  also.  Don't  let  us  start  for  the  play  just  yet. 
Let  us  miss  the  first  act  and  talk.  I  have  things  to 
say. ' ' 

"  I  too,"  said  Lucia  quickly. 

"  Then  you  shall  say  them  next.    But  I  must  pay 

390 


THE   CLIMBER  391 

my  tribute  money.  For  years  we  have  all  got  dread- 
fully bored  in  the  country  in  November,  and  knew  it. 
But  we  sat  there  and  were  bored  without  attempting 
to  remedy  it,  except  by  going  to  London  first  thing  in 
the  morning  and  returning  to  dinner.  Sunday  in  the 
country,  too!  What  a  deplorable  day.  Heron  always 
insisted  on  everybody  going  to  church.  And  the  chants 
invariably  gave  me  a  bilious  attack.  Now  you,  for 
this  year  anyhow,  have  changed  all  that. ' ' 

"  Ah,  I  may  only  have  precipitated  it,"  said  Lucia. 
"  You  told  me  once  that  I  had  not  made  a  set,  but 
precipitated  it." 

"  I  remember,  but  I  think  I  was  wrong.  Anyhow, 
you  have  changed  the  autumn;  you  can't  precipitate 
an  autumn,  or — what  would  happen?  I  suppose  it 
would  become  winter.  But  there  must  be  now  in  this 
nice  town  at  least  fifty  people  who  would  not  have  been 
here  except  for  you.  And  to  move  fifty  people,  es- 
pecially when  they  are  those  who  matter,  is  re- 
markable. ' ' 

Lucia  nodded  her  head  in  frank  appreciation  of  this 
recognition. 

"  Tribute  money  is  delicious,"  she  observed. 

Lady  Heron  never  flattered  anybody,  never,  at  any 
rate,  said  insincere  things  because  they  would  please. 
But  she  was  notable  for  seeing  what  there  was  to  praise 
in  a  world  that  a  less  clever  woman  might  have 
thought  but  mediocre,  and  she  was  always  quick  to 
praise  it. 

"  The  tribute  money  is  willingly  paid,"  she  said, 
"  for  it  is  beyond  doubt  that  you  have  done  what  you 
meant  to  do,  which  is  a  royal  attribute.  You  found  No- 
vember dull  in  the  country,  and  so  came  to  town.  And 


392  THECLIMBEE 

we  sheep  came  too.  We  also,  and  for  years,  had  found 
the  country  dull  in  November,  but  we  didn't  come  to 
town  for  fear  we  should  be  quite  alone  there.  Prob- 
ably we  should  have  been,  too.  Oh,  Lucia,  I  really  envy 
you.  You  built  a  pinnacle  yourself,  and  proceeded  to 
sit  on  the  top  of  it.  It  must  be  such  fun  building  and 
then  climbing.  I  never  did  that.  I  found  a  pinnacle 
built — yes,  I  am  on  a  pinnacle,  though  it  is  lower  than 
yours — and  just  went  and  sat  on  it.  I  have  had  enor- 
mous fun.  But  I  never  could  do  what  you  have  done 
already.  It  is  a  question  of  vitality,  I  think.  Your 
vitality  is  a  little  higher,  or  a  great  deal  higher,  than 
anybody  else's.  Don't  lose  it.  I  envy  it,  but  I  re- 
joice in  it." 

The  two  had  dined  alone  and  early,  meaning  to  go  to 
the  play.  But  having  abandoned  the  thought  of  the 
first  act,  the  question  of  the  play  was  dismissed  for 
the  time.  The  night  before  Lucia  had  given  a  dance, 
a  November  dance,  a  thing  as  unheard  of  as  a  Decem- 
ber rose,  and  it  was  this,  and  the  success  of  it,  that 
had  started  the  question  of  the  tribute  money.  And 
Madge  Heron  had  done  no  more  than  render  unto 
Lucia  the  things  that  were  Lucia 's.  She  had  left  Bray- 
ton  in  the  last  week  of  October,  and  settled  herself 
firmly  and  squarely  in  Prince 's  Gate.  As  usual,  people 
were  passing  to  and  fro,  sleeping  a  night  at  a  hotel 
before  going  on  somewhere  else,  but  when  she  had 
given  the  lead,  a  change  came.  Half  a  dozen  people 
came  to  stop  a  week  in  town,  instead  of  flying  up  and 
down,  and  they  found  it  pleasant  after  the  three  months 
in  the  country.  Then  the  movement  was  really  started 
Houses  reopened;  people  came  at  first  to  spend  the 
week-end  in  London,  just  as  in  the  summer  they  spent 


THE   CLIMBER  393 

the  week-end  in  the  country.  Then  the  week-end  in 
town  lengthened  itself ;  then  it  became  clear  that  with  all 
this  leaf  on  the  trees  it  would  be  time  enough  to  begin 
pheasant-shooting  in  December,  and  by  the  middle  of 
November  there  were  at  least  fifty  of  the  people  who 
mattered,  who  were  friends,  who  had  come  to  stop  in 
London  for  the  present.  And  last  night  Lucia  had 
given  a  dance  to  inaugurate  the  new  movement. 
Royalty  had  been  there,  quite  big  royalty.  It  was,  as 
Lady  Heron  said,  just  like  June.  It  certainly  was  an 
astounding  achievement.  And  the  personality  of 
Lucia,  who  had  always  interested  her,  was  absorbing 
to  her  now.  As  a  rule  she  did  not  like  women ;  she  was 
not  even  sure  that  she  liked  Lucia,  but  she  loved  the 
quality  that  made  for  success  and  domination.  Cer- 
tainly, at  any  rate,  she  was  more  interesting  than  the 
play. 

"  And  where  will  you  climb  to  next?  "  she  asked. 
* '  I  think  of  you  always  as  some  wonderful  figure  going 
up  and  up.  And  you  never  seem  to  stop,  whereas  all 
the  rest  of  us  climb  to  a  certain  level,  and  then  go  on 
doing  the  same  things  again  and  again.  You  filled  a 
south-country  house  in  August ;  you  fill  London  in  No- 
vember. What  next?  " 

Lucia  cast  a  sudden  flashlight  of  memory  back  over 
the  time,  so  short  a  while  ago,  when  she  had  envied 
Madge  Heron,  had  resolved  to  study  her.  And  already 
it  was  with  the  same  sort  of  incredulous  wonder  with 
which  she  looked  back  on  the  dreary  blank  years  at 
Brixham  that  she  thought  of  herself  as  having  ever 
had  anything  to  learn  from  dear  Madge.  She  had,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  learned  very  much,  but  what  she  had 
learned  she  had  assimilated  so  completely  that  it 


394  THE   CLIMBER 

formed  an  indivisible  part  of  herself,  and  could  no 
more  be  traced  to  its  origin  than  can  a  muscle  of  the 
human  frame  be  traced  back  into  beef  or  mutton  that 
once,  in  the  form  of  oxen  and  sheep,  grazed  in  a  field. 
But  she  was  not  sure  that  she  had  not  more  to  learn 
yet,  although  what  she  had  already  learned  was  no 
longer  capable  of  being  thought  back  to  its  origin.  And 
by  coincidence,  perhaps,  or  more  likely  from  intuition 
on  the  part  of  the  elder  woman,  Madge  instantly  spoke 
of  what  Lucia  was  thinking  of. 

"  You  have  suddenly  grown  up,  too,"  she  said. 
"  You  used  to  do  your  feats  in  a  sort  of  childish  un- 
consciousness. I  believe  you  had  your  child  when  you 
were  asleep.  Then  about  August  last  you  awoke,  you 
sleeping  beauty." 

That  was  intentional;  it  was  flattering  with  a  pur- 
pose. All  London  rang  with  certain  rumours,  and 
though,  as  a  general  rule,  Lady  Heron  paid  as  little 
heed  to  rumours  as  Lucia  had  once  professed  to  her 
husband  that  she  paid,  yet  the  coincidence  of  such  ru- 
mours, with  an  undoubted  change  in  Lucia,  could  not 
but  interest  her.  And,  looking  up,  she  saw  that  Lucia 
was  now  attending  to  what  she  said  with  a  closer  in- 
terest than  she  had  shown  even  in  the  matter  of  the 
tribute  money. 

"  I  awoke  in  August,  do  you  say?  "  she  asked. 
'  *  How  interesting !  I  hate  talking  about  myself,  but  I 
wonder  why  you  think  that!  How  did  I  become  dif- 
ferent? And  what  made  the  difference?  What  wak- 
ened me?  " 

Madge  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"  I  have  no  idea,"  she  said  at  length.  "  That  was 
what  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  Did  I  conjecture  ?  Oh,  cer- 


THE   CLIMBER  395 

tainly  I  conjectured.  I  thought  that  no  doubt  ma- 
ternity had  awakened  you." 

Lucia  could  not  help  laughing.  The  idea  genuinely 
amused  her ;  it  was  amusing  also  that  anyone  as  shrewd 
as  she  knew  Madge  to  be  should  be  so  hopelessly  astray. 
And  her  amusement  rather  put  her  off  her  guard, 
though,  indeed,  with  Madge  she  had  no  cause  to  keep 
her  point  up. 

"  Ah,  guess  again,"  she  said.  "  You  are  not  even 
warm. ' ' 

"  You  admit  the  awakening,  then?  "  asked  Madge. 

Lucia  hesitated.  But  she  saw  that  she  had  already 
given  that  away.  Her  answer  had  admitted  the  awak- 
ening. But  there  was  no  harm  done;  indeed  she  had 
often  been  on  the  point  of  telling  Madge  all  about  it, 
and  why  she  had  not  done  so  she  scarcely  knew.  It 
must  be  supposed  that  it  was  some  remnant  of  self- 
respect  that  had  deterred  her. 

"  Yes,  I  admit  the  awakening,"  she  answered.  "  I 
did  awake.  And  I  found  I  had  awoke  from  a  night- 
mare. Yes,  a  nightmare.  Being  awake,  I  knew  it  was 
that.  And  the  nightmare  goes  on  now." 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  quite  as  much,  but  her 
tongue  had  obeyed  not  her  judgment  but  an  instinct 
that  lay  below  and  beyond  it.  As  far  as  judgment  and 
quiet  thinking  went,  she  was  without  fear  and  quite 
without  scruple.  Only  something  very  deep  within  her 
was  afraid.  It  was  that  secret  fear  that  made  her  say 
what  she  had  said. 

But  having  said  it,  she  saw  at  once  that  it  was  better 
to  say  more,  to  explain,  to  tell  Madge  that  which  she 
felt  others  might  suspect,  though  she  had  no  reasonable 
cause  for  supposing  that  anybody  suspected  anything. 


396  THE   CLIMBER 

Only  it  seemed  incredible  that  what  was  real  to  her, 
that  which  was  her  life,  should  be  non-existent  for 
others.  She  wanted  to  be  assured  that  it  was  so ;  that 
nobody  else  suspected  anything. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said.  "  Are  people  talking  about 
me?  " 

Madge  Heron  laughed. 

"  They  are  talking  about  no  one  else,"  she  said. 
' '  You  are  the  theme ;  it  is  to  the  theme  I  have  paid  my 
tribute  money." 

Lucia  swept  a  place  clear  for  her  elbows ;  they  were 
still  sitting  at  the  dinner  table,  though  a  full  quarter  of 
an  hour  had  passed  since  the  servant  had  told  her  the 
carriage  was  at  the  door. 

' '  Oh,  I  don 't  mean  that, ' '  she  said.  '  *  But  domestic 
affairs  are  the  only  things  that  really  interest  the  pub- 
lic. So — are  they  talking  about  me?  r 

11  Oh,  yes,"  said  Madge. 

"  I  understand ;  so  do  you.  Charlie  is  supposed  to  be 
in  love  with  me,  is  it  not  so  f  And  am  I  supposed  to  be 
in  love  with  him?  It  is  that  that  matters.  God  knows 
why,  but  in  this  higgledy-piggledy  world  it  is  thought 
quite  nice  that  heaps  of  men  should  be  in  love  with  a 
woman,  but  if  that  unfortunate  woman  is  supposed  to 
be  in  love  with  any  of  them,  there  is  talk — talk — talk. 
I  "  (even  Lucia  stumbled  then)  "  I  am  not  in  love  with 
Charlie.  Do  they  say  I  am?  " 

Madge  again  felt  what  she  had  not  felt  for  the  last 
year  or  so,  that  she  was  immeasurably  ahead  of  Lucia. 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  say  that,"  she  said.  "  But  what  does 
it  matter?  You  can  get  anybody  to  say  anything." 

*  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  get  anybody  not  to 
say  that,"  said  Lucia. 


THE   CLIMBER  397 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  impossible  to  give  enough  to  make 
people  hold  their  tongues,"  said  Madge.  "  Twopence- 
halfpenny  or  less  will  set  tongues  wagging.  But  there 
is  only  one  thing  that  will  stop  them !  ' ' 

"  And  that?  "  asked  Lucia. 

'  *  Giving  them  nothing  to  wag  about.  That,  and  tak- 
ing no  notice  when  they  do  wag.  It  is  not  sufficient  to 
pretend  to  take  no  notice;  you  have  really  to  take  no 
notice." 

"  But  if  people  say  things  to  Maud  or  to  Edgar?  ' 
asked  Lucia.  The  play  was  completely  forgotten. 

"  What  does  that  matter,"  asked  Madge,  "  since 
you  are  not  in  love  with  him  ?  Lies,  slanders  are  always 
still-born.  It  is  the  unfortunate  circumstance  of  guilt 
that  hangs  people.  You  have  only  got  to  do  nothing 
and — and  before  long  there  is  a  quiet  little  funeral  of 
all  such  gossip.  Nobody  attends  it;  it  is  no  longer  in- 
teresting. And  even  if  you  are  guilty,  you  must  re- 
member you  have  to  be  found  out  before  they  hang 
you." 

Lucia  again  cleared  a  broader  space  for  her  elbows, 
knocking  a  wineglass  over  that  broke  into  splinters  on 
the  cloth.  But  she  was  quite  unconscious  of  it;  she 
knew  only  of  some  deep-seated  uneasiness  of  mind  that 
suddenly  felt  lonely  and  called  for  companionship. 

"  Yes,  but  this  isn't  lies,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  said 
it  was.  One  always  does  at  first,  I  imagine.  Didn't 
you?  " 

Lady  Heron  got  up  with  rather  a  terrible  look  in  her 
face  that  frightened  Lucia. 

*  *  You  are  rather  strange  and  mysterious, ' '  she  said. 
"  At  one  moment  you  tell  me  you  are  not  in  love  with 
Charlie ;  at  the  very  next  you  say  you  are.  And  then 


398  THECLIMBEB 

you  proceed  to  ask  me  whether  I  have  not  done  the 
same  under  similar  circumstances." 

Lucia  tried  to  interrupt,  but  Madge  stopped  her  by  a 
little  contemptuous  gesture  of  her  hand. 

"  I  assure  you  I  don't  care  in  the  least  what  your 
relations  with  Charlie  are.  But  when  you  assume  that 
I  have  been  in  the  same  position,  and  have — well,  equiv- 
ocated about  it,  you  commit  a  gross  impertinence. 
You  have  never  asked  me  about  my  life ;  I  have  never 
spoken  of  it  to  you ;  and  it  is  obvious  you  have  been  lis- 
tening to  gossip  about  me,  and  believing  it,  assuming  it 
was  true.  You  may  do  that  to  your  heart's  content, 
but  it  is  a  little  too  much  that  you  should  refer  to  it  to 
me.  Now  I  am  older  than  you  and  I  give  you  a  word 
of  warning.  You  have  done  wonderful  things  in  Lon- 
don ;  you  are  right  up  at  the  very  top ;  but  so  far  from 
tb at  making  you  safe,  it  makes  the  greatest  care  neces- 
sary. I  am  not  speaking  now  of  your  private  relations 
—or  the  absence  of  them — with  Charlie ;  I  am  speaking 
of  what  you  have  just  said  to  me.  It  was  a  great  mis- 
take to  say  that ;  it  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  wrecks  peo- 
ple. It's  lucky  it  is  to  me  that  you  said  it.  Do  you 
understand?  You  may  be  Messalina,  if  you  choose,  but 
—I  am  going  to  speak  very  plainly — you  must  not  be 
a  cad." 

Lucia  listened  at  first  in  mere  astonishment  and  be- 
wilderment, then  gradually  it  dawned  on  her  that 
Madge  was  quite  right.  Those  two  little  words  ' '  Didn  't 
you?  "  she  saw  to  have  been  quite  horrible.  And  she 
received  these  very  plain  remarks  with  a  rather  touch- 
ing gentleness. 

"  It  was  disgusting  of  me,  Madge,"  she  said.  "  I 
ask  your  pardon." 


THE   CLIMBER  399 

Lady  Heron  had  in  a  very  notable  degree  the  bigness 
of  nature  which  Lucia  so  utterly  lacked.  And  though 
she  did  not  withdraw  or  repent  of  a  single  word  she  had 
said,  she  did  not  mean  to  quarrel  with  Lucia  of  her  own 
initiative. 

' '  My  dear,  of  course  you  have  it, ' '  she  said.  ' '  And 
now,  what  shall  we  do,  as  we  are  on  our  feet  ?  If  we  are 
to  see  anything  of  our  play  we  must  go,  or  we  shall  not 
be  in  time  even  for  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  which  is  very 
often  the  best  thing  that  happens  in  an  English  play, 
and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  miss  it.  But  if  we  don't  go  I 
will  send  my  motor  away,  and  tell  it  to  come  back 
later." 

"  Oh,  let  us  stop  at  home,"  said  Lucia.  "  I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  Somehow  I  am  nervous  and  uneasy.  I 
don't  know  if  I  have  cause  for  it  or  not." 

The  motor  was  sent  away,  and  the  two  went  into 
Lucia's  private  sitting-room.  Madge  established  her- 
self near  the  fire,  but  Lucia  stood  in  front  of  it  a  little 
while  in  silence. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  Maud  knows,"  she  said  at 
length. 

"  Knows  what?  How  much!  "  said  Madge. 
"  Whatever  Maud  knows,  I  know  nothing." 

"  I  think  she  knows  that  Charlie  and  I  are  in  love 
with  each  other,"  said  Lucia. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so!  " 

* '  I  can  hardly  say.  Sometimes  if  you  know  a  person 
very  well,  as  I  know  Maud,  you  have  intuitions  which 
you  cannot  quite  explain.  But  let  me  try.  I  am  sure 
she  is  unhappy  about  something,  and  I  can  think  of 
nothing  in  the  world  that  could  make  her  unhappy  ex- 
cept that." 


400  THE  CLIMBER 

"  But  she  has  said  nothing?  ' 

"  No,  but  she  looks — I  can't  tell  you  what  she  looks 
like.  She  looks  unhappy,  and  oh,  so  dreadfully  sorry, 
and  I  feel  that  she  is  hoping  I  shall  say  something  to 
her.  And  Charlie  sees  it  too;  it  makes  us  both 
wretched!" 

It  made  them  both  wretched!  The  egoism  of  this 
was  colossal.  There  was  something  almost  sublime 
about  it. 

"  Ah,  if  you  are  right,  there  is  only  one  thing  to  be 
done, ' '  said  Madge  quickly.  *  *  You  must  give  it  all  up 
at  once.  It  is  too  perilous;  that  is  the  way  smashes 
come.  And  we  can't  afford  that  you  should  go  smash, 
dear  Lucia;  you  are  too  precious." 

Lucia  threw  her  hands  wide. 

"  But  I  can't  give  it  up,"  she  said.  "  I  can't!  I 
could  as  easily  commit  suicide.  Besides,  you  don't 
know  Maud  as  I  do.  I  believe  that  she  could  not  do 
anything  that  would  injure  me.  She  is  the  finest  woman 
I  know — the  most  generous." 

Calm  and  controlled  as  Lucia  usually  was,  a  sud- 
den agitation  began  to  shake  her  hold  over  herself. 
Certainly  she  had  woke  up  last  August,  and  she  had 
woke  to  find  herself  a  woman  who  knew  forces  that 
seemed  stronger  than  herself.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
was  only  the  full  power  of  her  own  temperament,  which 
had  slept  hitherto,  that  then  gripped  her,  but  it  seemed 
as  if  the  force  came  from  without.  And  since,  in  spite 
of  her  transcendent  selfishness,  she  had  not  absolutely 
lost  sight  of  something  a  little  finer  and  better  than  the 
life  she  led,  though,  like  some  distant  mountain-peak, 
it  was  unscalable  by  her,  there  were  still  moments  when 
she  could  see  the  horror  of  her  doings,  and  pour  bitter 


THE   CLIMBEE  401 

irony  on  herself  for  those  things  which  even  in  the 
same  breath  she  would  declare  to  be  resistless. 

"  And  what  a  fine  friend  I  have  been  to  her,"  she 
said.  ' '  It  was  always  the  same ;  whatever  Maud  had, 
I  wanted  and  got.  It  was  like  that  at  Girton  when  I 
knew  her  first ;  all  her  things  were  mine.  She  told  me 
that,  and  she  meant  it.  And  I've  taken  them  all.  She 
had  a  sort  of  girlish  attachment  to  Edgar,  you  know. 
So  I  cut  her  out,  and  took  him  myself.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  me,  I  think  it  very  likely  he  would  have  mar- 
ried her.  I  never  loved  him,  never  for  a  single  moment. 
I  just  wanted  what  he  could  give  me.  And  got  it.  Then 
Maud  got  Charlie,  so  I  took  him,  too.  That's  me." 

Lucia's  beautiful  mouth  was  curled  in  scorn  of  her- 
self, and  the  words  came  with  the  sharpness  of  ham- 
mer-blows on  a  steel  anvil.  Then  she  went  on  more 
calmly,  but  still  with  the  egoist's  passionate  interest  in 
herself. 

"  I  have  always  been  greedy,"  she  said,  "  and 
greedy  people  always  go  from  bad  to  worse.  Their 
greediness  coarsens  even  that  in  them  which  might 
have  been  fine.  Even  things  like  love,  which  are  sup- 
posed to  ennoble,  get  infected  by  their  coarseness.  For 
them  there  is  no  such  thing  as  the  light  of  love;  there 
are  only  lumps  of  love.  And  they  eat  them  up,  and  get 
stouter.  I  am  huge,  let  me  tell  you,  bloated,  monstrous. 
I  suck  out  the  juice  from  everything,  and  leave  dry 
skins  behind. ' ' 

Madge  found  herself  suddenly  wondering  how  much 
of  this  was  genuine.  She  need  not ;  it  was  all  perfectly 
genuine.  Lucia  felt  what  she  said ;  it  was  honest  criti- 
cism of  herself.  But  she  was  not  shocked  at  it,  she  was 
only  interested.  She  told  herself  that  there  were  forces 


402  THE   CLIMBER 

against  which  it  was  idle  to  struggle,  and  did  not  pro- 
pose to  do  anything  so  useless. 

4 '  And  it  is  all  so  utterly  mean, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I,  we, 
deliberately  take  advantage  of  Maud's  immense  gen- 
erosity, and,  though  I  have  begun  to  doubt  it  now,  her 
incapacity  of  thinking  evil  of  those  she  loves.  Yet  I 
don't  really  doubt  that;  I  think  she  knows  that  we  are 
in  love  with  each  other,  and  is  merely  dreadfully  sorry 
for  us." 

14  Ah,  then  I  expect  that  you  are  dancing  on  a  vol- 
cano, ' '  said  Madge.  ' '  I  know  Maud  too,  and  know  that 
she  is  the  soul  of  generosity  and  kindliness.  But,  dear 
Lucia,  I  know  Woman,  the  genus,  better  than  you,  and 
you  are  taking  an  impossible  view  of  things.  A  woman 
can  no  more  give  her  husband  up,  if  she  loves  him,  to 
another  woman,  than  she  could  throw  her  baby  on  to 
the  fire.  The  situation  is  one  you  must  put  an  end  to. 
And  Edgar  f  If  Maud  has  seen,  are  you  sure  he  has  not  ? 
He  loves  you,  you  know,  as  Maud  loves  Charlie,  and 
there  is  a  terrible  clairvoyance  about  love,  which  en- 
ables it  with  startling  and  disconcerting  penetrability 
to  see  straight  through  a  brick  wall.  And  this  isn't  a 
brick  wall.  It  is  more  like  a  pane  of  plate  glass,  which 
we  can  all  see  through  without  any  clairvoyance  at  all. ' ' 

Lucia  still  retained  a  great  deal  of  respect  for  her 
friend's  wisdom.  She  had  certainly  managed  her  life 
— though  Lucia  did  not  intend  to  ask  any  more  ques- 
tions about  that — with  extreme  tact,  and  though  a  mc- 
ment  before  Lucia  had  declared  that  to  give  anything 
up  was  impossible,  she  felt  she  would  like  a  little  more 
advice  on  the  subject. 

"  What  would  you  do,  then?  "  she  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  sound  unpalatable." 


THE   CLIMBER  403 

"  Advice  usually  does,"  said  Lucia.  "  Good  advice, 
anyhow. ' ' 

' '  Well,  I  know  my  advice  is  good,  and  it  answers  the 
test  of  being  unpalatable.  You  must  act  with  great 
finesse,  because,  if  you  seem  suddenly  to  quarrel  with 
Charlie,  a  construction  will  be  put  by  both  Maud  and 
Edgar  on  to  your  late  intimacy  which  it  is  your  whole 
desire  to  avert." 

"  Ah,  that  is  wise,"  said  Lucia,  finding  some  pro- 
spective comfort. 

11  Yes,  dear;  of  course  it  is,  because  I  am  not  a  fool," 
remarked  Madge.  1 1  You  must  let  your  public  manner 
to  him  be  still  a  shade  on  the  near  side  of  friendship, 
as  it  has  been  lately.  It  is  that,  I  may  tell  you,  that  has 
been  so  universally  remarked." 

Lucia  frowned. 

"  Ah,  what  a  horrid  world!  "  she  said.  "  As  if  one 
mightn't  be  friendly  with  one's  husband's  cousin." 

That  again,  considering  the  actual  state  of  affairs, 
was  colossal.  Lucia  was  shocked  at  the  horrid  world 
for  putting  the  right  construction  on  what  she  was  do- 
ing. But  Madge  only  wore  the  faintest  smile. 

4  *  Horrid  or  not, ' '  she  said,  "  it  is  the  only  world  with 
which  we  have  to  deal,  and  if  you  want  it  not  to  be 
horrid  to  you,  you  must  make  the  concessions  it  insists 
on.  Maud,  you  see,  has  been  horrid,  so  you  think,  too. 
Perhaps  Edgar  also." 

Lucia  considered  this.  It  was  wise,  but  not  being  so 
comforting,  she  did  not  applaud  it. 

"  Yes,  dear  Madge,"  she  said. 

'  *  As  I  say,  I  should  continue  my  very  friendly  public 
manner,  and  have — no  private  manner  at  all.  Don't 
see  him  privately  at  all — for  a  time.  Give  suspicion  no 


404  THE   CLIMBER 

scent  to  follow.  For  a  time,  until  they  whip  it  off  and 
take  it  home  to  its  kennel.  They  are  only — only  cub- 
hunting  at  present.  They  go  home  early." 

Then  an  impulse  of  tremendous  inconsistency  visited 
Madge,  an  inconsistency  which  every  now  and  then,  like 
some  bolt  from  the  blue  or  sudden  earthquake-shock, 
comes  to  tempt,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  trouble  those 
who  deal  most  singly  with  life.  She  had  lived  herself 
with  astonishing  singleness  of  purpose,  and  had  con- 
sistently taken  all  that  life  could  be  made  to  give  her 
that  was  to  herself  desirable,  without  considering  too 
closely  the  cost  to  others  or  even  distantly  what  her  own 
soul  paid  for  it.  These  spiritual  cheques  were  easily 
signed,  and  they  went  to  a  bank  that  seemed  never  to 
worry  her  with  letters  that  warned  of  an  overdraft. 
But  now  it  seemed  a  pity  that  Lucia  should  take  the 
same  path  that  she  had  taken.  The  world  offered  her 
everything.  How  good  it  would  be  to  see  the  rejection 
of  the  forbidden  fruit!  Yes,  it  was  forbidden;  and 
whether  she  herself  had  fed  or  not  on  forbidden  things, 
even  to  the  extent  of  making  a  diet  of  them,  seemed  for 
the  moment  not  to  matter.  Dimly  and  almost  dumbly, 
till  the  words  broke  through  the  barrier  of  the  sense  of 
her  own  utter  inconsistency,  she  longed  to  urge  Lucia 
to  do  as  she  herself  had  not  done.  It  might  have  been 
but  a  whet  to  a  jaded  appetite  to  see  herself  in  the  role 
of  preacher,  but  she  cared  not  whence  the  impulse 
came.  She  wanted  to  see  some  one  of  her  own  corrupt 
world  shining  with  the  lambent  vitality  that  was 
Lucia's,  living  purely,  walking  unstained  and  enthu- 
siastic through  the  rainbow  mud  of  life. 

"  It  isn't  only  that,"  she  said,  speaking  quickly  and 
nervously ;  '  *  what  I  "have  said  to  you  is  only  the  wis- 


THE   CLIMBER  405 

dom  of  the  commonly  prudent.  Oh,  Lucia,  I  beg  you,  as 
an  inestimable  personal  gift,  to  do  so  much  more.  I 
and — I  needn't  mention  who  else,  but  people  who  are 
our  friends,  amuse  ourselves  tremendously,  but  they 
and  I  behave  as  if  we  lack  all  moral  sense.  And  when 
you  get  older — you  are  so  young,  you  know — you  will 
see  what  that  lack  means.  ^Before  you  are  forty,  you 
will  find  that  you  have  run  through  everything,  unless 
you  put  up  a  '  Trespasser  '  notice  in  your  soul.  That, 
too,  is  only  an  extension  of  the  wisdom  of  the  commonly 
prudent.  But  can't  you — can't  you  go  much  higher 
than  that?  Show  us  the  big  good  life,  instead  of  the  big 
bad  life.  Yes — good,  bad ;  you  think  I  am  using  obso- 
lete terms.  But  when  you  are  older  you  will  wonder 
whether,  after  all,  they  are  obsolete,  and  when  you  are 
older  again  you  will  know,  too  late,  that  they  are  not. 
How  sickeningly  stupid  is  the  proverb  that  says  it  is 
never  too  late  to  mend !  Of  course,  sometimes  it  is  too 
late  to  mend,  for  the  time  comes  when  you  remember 
the  desire  to  have  mended  quite  clearly,  but  you  no 
longer  know  what  it  means." 

She  got  up,  taking  her  fan  from  the  table. 

' '  I  suppose  that  is  what  they  mean  by  hell,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  nonsensical,  otherwise." 

She  had  done  her  best;  she  had  tried  to  put  into 
words  all  that  she  was  capable  of  feeling.  But  she  did 
not  wholly  know  of  how  utterly  inferior  a  nature  to  her- 
self was  she  to  whom  she  was  speaking.  She  had  been 
in  deadly  earnest ;  every  word  she  had  spoken  was  quite 
true,  as  far  as  she  knew,  but  she  was  speaking  to  one  to 
whom  the  only  reality  was  her  own  gratification,  and 
who  could  not  really  grasp  another  point  of  view. 


406  THE  CLIMBER 

Lucia  could  say  of  her  own  conduct  that  it  "  was  so 
mean,"  but  she  said  it  merely  as  an  actress  might  criti- 
cize the  part  for  which  she  was  cast.  She  did  not  feel 
abased  because  it  was  mean ;  she  felt  only  that  the  play- 
wright had  given  her  a  mean  part,  and  that,  even 
as  she  was  acting  it,  she  could  stand  aside  and  criti- 
cize it. 

She  replied  witn  a  silken  quietness. 

' '  What  has  come  to  you,  dear  Madge, ' '  she  said, ' c  I 
mean  the  sense  of  its  being  too  late,  has  already  come 
to  me.  Thank  you  for  your  counsels  of  prudence;  I 
think  they  are  quite — quite  excellent.  But  supposing 
you  could  put  the  clock  of  years  back,  and  live 
your  life  over  again,  do  you  suppose  you  would  do  dif- 
ferently? " 

The  allusion  to  Madge's  past  life  went  unnoticed  by 
both  now.  Lucia  had  not,  in  spite  of  the  severe  han- 
dling of  an  hour  before,  thought  of  any  embarrass- 
ment that  might  attend  its  reintroduction. 

"  I  suppose  I  should  not  do  differently,"  said 
Madge ;  * '  but  when  I  was  forty-two  again,  I  suppose  I 
should  be  again  sorry  for  not  having  done  differently. 
And — and  you  may  be  sorry  before, ' '  she  added. 

"  You  mean  I  am  not  as  clever  as  you1?  "  asked 
Lucia. 

*  *  I  mean  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  mean  .you  may  be 
better  than  me.  And  I  tell  you — worldly  disaster  may 
be  avoided ;  if  you  are  clever  you  will  probably  avoid  it. 
But  there  is  damage  beyond  that.  You  can  maim  and 
scarify  yourself,  the  essential  you.  I  have  done  so, 
and  when  that  is  brought  home  to  me,  as  somehow  it 
has  been  to-night,  I  hate  myself  as  David  hated  the 
blind  and  the  maimed.  I  hate  my  soul.  Don't  laugh  at 


THE  CLIMBER  407 

me  till  I  have  gone.  Even  then  I  shall  feel  it  all  down 
my  back." 

Lucia  smiled  at  her  quite  untroubled. 

' '  I  shall  not  laugh  at  you  at  all,"  she  said.  "  On  the 
contrary,  I  think  it  is  all  rather  sad,  and  you  have  given 
me  just  a  touch  of  the  blues.  And  I  am  dreadfully  sorry 
for  you.  It  must  be  dreadful  to  feel,  when  you  are  only 
just  forty,  that  you  wish  you  had  acted  consistently 
otherwise,  and  that  it  is  too  late.  Can't  you  get  over 
that,  put  it  behind  you  ?  It  can  do  no  good ;  it  must  be 
both  unpleasant  and  useless,  so  that  there  is  no  excuse 
for  its  existence.  And  it  was  dear  of  you  to  have 
warned  me.  I  think  some  of  the  things  you  said  were 
excellent — quite  excellent.  I  shall  follow  some  of  your 
advice.  I  might  even  go  for  a  short  cruise  with  Edgar 
in  the  Mediterranean,  all  alone.  That  would  be  a  splen- 
did insurance  policy,  would  it  not  ?  ' ' 

Madge  did  not  answer  directly.  But  she  gave  a  little 
shiver,  and  drove  the  poker  into  the  heart  of  the  fire. 

"  It  is  cold  to-night,"  she  said. 

Lucia's  dramatic  sense  was  always  quick,  and  she  re- 
ceived a  very  poignant  dramatic  impression  at  these 
words.  Poor  Madge !  the  fire  was  beginning  to  burn 
not  so  warmly  in  her  life,  and,  alas  for  her,  there  was 
no  possibility  of  making  it  blaze  afresh  by  prodding  at 
it,  as  she  was  doing  to  its  material  counterpart  on  the 
hearth.  It  was  too  late ;  she  felt  it  herself.  But  it  had 
not  been  very  amiable  of  her  to  try  to  envelop  Lucia 
also  in  her  own  chilliness.  No  doubt  (it  was  very  rea- 
sonable) she  felt  just  a  touch  of  envy  of  her  before 
whom  so  many  fiery  years  yet  lay.  Poor  Madge :  she 
was  so  clever,  so  tactful,  so  full  of  wisdom,  and  already 


408  THE   CLIMBER 

that  was  availing  her  nothing  against  the  coldness  that 
was  beginning  to  creep  over  her.  And  surely,  at  forty- 
two,  it  was  yet  early  to  begin  to  think  about  your  soul, 
and  to  hate  yourself.  Lucia  proposed  not  to  indulge  in 
any  such  qualms  till  she  was  much  older  than  that.  Yes ; 
it  was  quite  a  dramatic  moment,  with  Madge  kneeling 
there  by  the  fire,  with  her  wit  and  her  wisdom  all  as 
powerless  to  console  her  as  her  pearls  and  her  really 
exquisite  high  evening-dress,  saying  only  that  it  was 
cold.  But  it  was  not  quite  kind  of  her  to  have  sug- 
gested these  things;  despite  herself  Lucia  felt  a  little 
prickle  of  goose-flesh.  It  was  certainly  better,  after 
appreciating  the  dramatic,  to  dismiss  these  chilly 
thoughts. 

* '  You  have  been  charming  to  me  to-night, ' '  she  said ; 
1  i  and  how  much  more  interested  we  have  been  in  our- 
selves than  we  should  have  been  in  any  play.  I  am 
going,  for  a  time,  to  be  a  model  of  discretion  and  piety, 
so  the  Archbishop  and  bishops  will  probably  ask  my 
permission  to  canonize  me,  and  I  shall  certainly  let 
them.  They  would  think  it  so  strange  if  I  refused,  and 
might  begin  to  suspect  something,  which  is  obviously 
undesirable." 

Madge  got  up. 

"  I  feel  warmer,"  she  said,  "  and  I  must  go.  Do  re- 
member we  can't  afford  to  have  you  smashed.  Good- 
night, dear  Lucia." 

Lucia  never  did  things  by  halves,  and  having  made 
up  her  mind  that  Madge  was  right,  and  that  it  was 
important — for  a  time — to  behave  with  extreme  pru- 
dence, she  spent  no  regrets  over  this  unwelcome  neces- 
sity, and,  though  sleepy,  waited  for  Edgar,  who  had 


THE   CLIMBER  409 

been  dining  with  bimetallists  or  some  strange  sect,  to 
come  home,  so  that  she  might  proceed  to  put  her  plan 
into  action  at  once. 

"  Dear  old  boy!  "  she  said,  as  he  came  in;  "  but 
how  late  you  are.  Were  the  bigamists  or  bimetallists 
so*  fascinating?  Madge  dined  with  me,  but  she  has 
been  gone  hours — oh,  hours!  We  meant  to  go  to  the 
play,  but  stopped  at  home  and  talked  about  ourselves 
instead.  Do  you  remember  once,  well,  criticizing  her 
rather  severely,  to  me?  You  were  so  wrong.  She  is 
very  serious  and  struggling,  really.  I  never  knew  it 
before.  It  was  rather  a  surprise." 

Edgar  was  capable  of  a  certain  dryness. 

"  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  surprise,"  he  said.  "  It 
was  perfectly  natural.  But  how  late  you  are,  Lucia! 
You  said  you  meant  to  go  to  bed  early." 

' '  I  know,  but  I  thought  I  would  sit  up  for  you.  Is 
that  quite  unheard-of  conduct!  And  I  wanted  to  have 
a  chat.  Since  we  have  been  in  town  I  have  not  set 
eyes  on  you.  Have  you  been  wearing  the  cap  of 
darkness?  " 

"  No,"  said  Edgar.  "  The  cap  of  invisibility  fits 
you,  not  me.  At  least,  you  have  been  visible  to  so  many 
people  that  I  have  seen  nothing  of  you.  We  have  not 
met  all  day,  have  we?  I  hope  you  were  pleased  with 
your  dance  last  night." 

"  Ah,  it  was  the  greatest  success,"  said  Lucia.  "  In 
November,  too.  No  one  had  ever  thought  of  it  before. 
And  it  is  such  fun  not  only  hearing  about,  but  doing, 
some  new  thing." 

'  *  You  are  a  true  Athenian, ' '  said  he. 

"  Thank  you,  dear.  That  is  a  great  compliment,  for 
certainly  they  realized  both  the  beautiful  as  well  as 


410  THE   CLIMBER 

the  intellectual  value  of  the  world  better  than  any  race 
before  or  since. ' ' 

"  Ah,  you  separate  the  two,"  said  he.  But  it  was 
clear  that  he  had  no  thoughts  of  a  discussion ;  indeed, 
he  seemed  a  little  distant  and  preoccupied.  Lucia  had 
noticed  that  for  the  last  month  or  two  such  a  mood 
seemed  to  have  grown  rather  common  with  him. 

He  sat  down  on  the  sofa  opposite  her. 

"  And  what  are  your  plans'?  "  he  asked.  "  How 
long  would  you  like  to  stop  in  town?  ' 

"  I,  too,  was  going  to  speak  of  that,"  she  said.  "  It 
is  getting  rather  chilly  and  foggy,  you  know,  and  we 
have  had  our  ball.  And  my  bones  rather  long  for  the 
sun;  there  is  nothing  at  this  moment  I  should  like 
so  well  as  to  sit  and  be  baked  in  it  for  a  week 
or  two. ' ' 

*  *  I  am  told  they  are  having  charming  weather  on  the 
South  Coast,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  a  second-rate  sun  at  the  best  which 
is  obtainable  in  England,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Edgar, 
why  shouldn't  we  go  Darby-and-Joaning  in  the  yacht 
for  a  fortnight  ?  We  might  join  her  at  Marseilles  and 
have  a  cruise  up  the  Riviera  coast.  Oh,  think  of  it,  on 
a  day  like  to-day,  when  it  was  so  foggy  and  muddy! 
At  the  best,  the  sun  was  like  a  new  penny.  And  you 
don't  have  your  first  shooting  party  till  the  second 
week  in  December,  do  you?  Do  take  me  on  the  yacht. 
Just  you  and  I." 

Something  that  had  slumbered  in  Edgar's  mind  since 
the  night  of  the  thunderstorm  at  Brayton  suddenly 
stirred  and  lifted  its  head. 

"  Let's  ask  Charlie  to  come  with  us,"  he  said. 
"  Maud  of  course  wouldn't;  she  hates  the  sea." 


THECLIMBEE  411 

And  he  looked  across  to  his  wife,  watching  her  nar- 
rowly. He  saw  her  bosom  heave  suddenly,  and  there 
was  a  perceptible  change  of  colour.  And  when  she 
spoke,  her  voice,  for  a  sentence  or  two,  was  not  quite 
steady. 

* '  How  nice  of  you  to  think  of  Charlie !  ' '  she  said. 
"  Of  course,  he  is  a  dear,  but  do  you  think  he  would 
be  a  good  third  on  the  yacht?  I'm  not  sure  that  I  do. 
How  horrid  of  me,  when  Charlie  is  such  a  friend !  But 
somehow  I  don't  see  him  and  you  and  me  together.  Let 
us  ask  half  a  dozen  people,  if  you  will,  and  let  Charlie 
be  one,  but  otherwise  let  us  go  alone." 

Lucia  got  up ;  she  felt  that  Edgar  was  watching  her, 
and  for  that  reason  forbore  to  look  at  him,  for  she 
knew  that  hate,  hostility,  must  come  into  her  face  if 
she  did.  But  again  and  again  she  asked  herself  why 
he  had  suggested  that.  Did  it  mean  anything?  Did 
he  say  it  with  purpose?  And  why  was  he  watching 
her?  Already  that  one  moment  of  ungovernable  emo- 
tion which  had  seized  her  at  the  very  unexpected  sug- 
gestion was  past,  and  she  wondered  if  any  sign  of  it 
had  escaped  her.  That  she  could  not  tell;  she  knew 
only  that  her  heart  had  suddenly  begun  to  beat  very 
quickly  when  the  suggestion  was  made.  But  it  got 
quiet  again  quite  soon. 

' '  I  cannot  fail  to  be  charmed  by  your  preference  for 
my  undiluted  society, ' '  he  said,  * '  and  I  think  that  even 
you  would  find  it  hard  to  get  half  a  dozen  people  to 
come  with  us  at  so  short  a  notice  as  this  will  have 
to  be." 

Again  she  wondered  if  anything  lurked  below  his 
words.  It  was  the  sort  of  sentiment,  slightly  pompous 
in  expression,  that  was  quite  characteristic  of  him ;  but 


412  THE   CLIMBER 

was  that  all?  And  then,  with  a  want  of  wisdom  that 
would  have  made  Madge  wring  hands  of  despair,  she 
thought  that  even  if  there  was  something  below,  she 
could  easily  disarm  it,  instead  of  which  she  but  gave 
it  a  weapon  the  more.  Had  she  jumped  at  the  idea  of 
asking  Charlie  to  join  them,  Edgar,  given  that  there 
was  anything  sinister  in  his  suggestion,  would  have 
concluded  that  his  suspicions  were  baseless.  But  her 
rejection  of  a  companionship  that  he  knew  she  liked 
was  a  thing  that  required  explanation  far  more  than 
her  acceptance  of  it  would  have  done.  The  one  was 
quite  unaccountable;  the  other  would  have  been  per- 
fectly natural.  And  the  thing  that  had  lain  slumber- 
ing in  his  own  mind,  and  had  just  now  raised  its  head, 
did  more.  It  opened  its  eyes,  and  its  ears  were 
pricked. 

Lucia  gave  a  long,  elaborate  yawn. 

"  Quite  true,"  she  said,  "  though  not  complimentary 
this  time.  But  I  allow  that  to  get  half  a  dozen  people 
to  come  to  the  Mediterranean  at  a  few  days'  notice  is 
beyond  my  probable  powers.  Mind,  I  only  say  prob- 
able. So  let  us  go  alone.  You  are  angelic  to  me, 
Edgar;  I  do  so  want  the  sun.  Let  us  make  arrange- 
ments to-morrow.  I  am  sleepy,  sleepy.  Are  you  going 
to  bed?  " 

' '  Not  yet, ' '  said  he.    "I  have  things  to  do. ' ' 

She  kissed  him. 

"  I  always  foresaw  that  bimetallism  would  wreck 
our  lives,"  she  said.  "  But  it  is  a  good  thing  to  get 
rid  of  pennies  and  half -pennies.  At  least,  I  hope  you 
keep  silver  and  gold  as  the  two  metals.  Am  I  talking 
nonsense?  I  hope  so;  it  shows  I  shall  go  to  sleep  at 
once. ' ' 


THE   CLIMBER  413 

The  "  things  "  that  Edgar  had  to  do  appeared,  when 
his  wife  left  him,  to  be  of  an  inactive  character,  and 
as  far  as  action  was  concerned,  required  only  that  he 
should  frown  at  the  fire.  He  did  so  for  a  consider- 
able period. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  two  met  next  day  during  the  morning,  and  half 
an  hour's  discussion  was  sufficient  to  enable 
Edgar  to  fill  a  half-sheet  with  notes  of  things  he  had 
to  do,  with  regard  to  this  little  cruise  in  the  Southern 
sea,  and  to  leave  him  with  the  certainty  that  nothing 
had  been  omitted.  The  yacht,  which  was  at  Southamp- 
ton, was  to  start  for  Marseilles  as  soon  as  it  could  get 
its  coaling  and  provisioning  done,  and  on  receipt  of  a 
telegram  that  it  had  arrived  there,  he  and  Lucia  would 
leave  London  and  travel  overland.  They  might,  in 
fact,  hope  to  start  in  ten  days'  time  at  the  outside. 
But  these  ten  days  would  be  rather  full:  biinetallists 
and  small-holders  clamoured  for  his  presence  on  com- 
mittees ;  there  was  also  an  inside-of-a-week  visit  which 
should  be  paid,  and  it  was  necessary  for  him,  at  any 
rate,  to  go  down  to  Brayton  for  a  night  or  so,  to  collect 
the  photographic  apparatus  and  the  guide-books,  with- 
out which  visits  to  foreign  lands  were  shorn  of  half 
their  potential  profit.  Lucia  had  laughed  at  such  an 
idea:  what  was  simpler  than  to  send  to  Brayton  for 
all  the  guide-books  and  all  the  photographic  apparatus  ! 
But  Edgar  had  used  a  phrase  that  she  knew  well  to 
be  final — "  One  feels  safer  if  one  sees  to  things  one- 
self." But  this  visit  to  Brayton  was  hard  to  work  in 
with  the  other  visit,  and,  in  the  upshot,  Lucia  was  to 
write  an  apologetic  letter  to  Mouse,  saying  that  she 
would  come,  but  that  Edgar  would  not.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  this  adjustment  seemed  to  her  almost  ideal, 

414 


THE   CLIMBER  415 

for,  as  she  heard  from  other  sources,  Maud  was  laid  up 
with  a  cold  that  resembled  influenza,  and  Charlie  was 
going  there  alone.  She  felt  she  would  like  to  see 
Charlie  before  they  left,  for  she  would  not  see  him 
again  for  some  time.  They  were  giving  a  couple  of 
shooting  parties  at  Brayton,  but  he  and  Maud  had  been 
unable  to  come  to  them.  And  before  Christmas  the 
latter  left  for  St.  Moritz,  where  they  would  spend  six 
weeks. 

Lucia  came  out  from  her  husband's  room,  when  these 
arrangements  had  been  talked  over,  and  went  slowly 
upstairs.  It  was  her  part  to  see  to  the  movements 
of  the  servants,  and  though,  in  general,  she  was  ex- 
tremely rapid  in  domestic  dealings,  she  sat  on  this  oc- 
casion in  long  consideration.  Yet  they  appeared  simple 
enough.  At  Brayton,  for  instance,  at  the  present  time 
there  were  only  the  caretaker  and  his  wife,  who  cooked 
in  a  plain  manner,  and  her  own  child  and  the  nurse  and 
nurserymaid.  She  must  therefore  send  down  a  mar- 
miton,  anyhow,  to  give  Edgar  eatable  dinners,  a  house- 
maid, and  a  footman;  they,  with  his  man,  would  make 
him  comfortable.  When  they  came  back  from  their 
cruise  they  would  go  straight  down  to  Brayton;  the 
rest  of  the  London  household,  therefore,  could  move 
down  after  they  had  gone,  and  be  on  board  wages  there. 
It  all  seemed  simple. 

But  there  was  this  also.  On  the  day  Edgar  went  to 
Brayton  she  herself  was  going  to  stay  with  Mouse, 
and  would  rejoin  him  in  town  the  evening  before  they 
started  to  go  abroad.  That  night,  according  to  Edgar's 
invariable  custom,  when  leaving  London  in  the  winter 
to  go  to  the  Continent  by  the  morning  train,  they  would 
spend  at  the  Grosvenor  Hotel  at  Victoria,  so  as  to  run 


416  THE   CLIMBER 

no  risk  of  missing  the  train  owing  to  a  fog.  Once, 
years  ago,  he  had  missed  the  eleven  o'clock  train  from 
this  cause:  since  then  he  chose  to  run  no  risks.  She 
would,  then,  not  require  any  servants  except  the  care- 
taker in  Prince's  Gate  from  the  day  she  left  town  to 
stay  with  Mouse.  They  might  therefore  just  as  well 
leave  town  then  and  go  down  to  Brayton  at  once.  Yes, 
that  would  be  more  convenient ;  Edgar  would  be  better 
looked  after  also.  It  was  all  quite  reasonable,  quite 
natural. 

But  none  of  these  excellent  arrangements  were  ac- 
counted for  in  her  own  mind  by  the  reasons  that  made 
them  so  accountable.  Lucia,  from  several  causes,  had 
not  slept  well  last  night,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  told  her  husband  she  was  so  sleepy.  Madge's  con- 
versation with  her  after  dinner  had  merited  and  had 
received  due  consideration,  and  Lucia  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  Madge  was  right,  that  extreme  caution — for 
a  time — was  necessary.  But  that  was  not  all,  nor 
nearly  all.  Edgar's  manner  in  their  subsequent  talk 
had  a  little  disquieted  her  at  the  time,  and  on  thinking 
it  over  after  she  had  gone  to  bed,  it  disquieted  her  very 
much  indeed;  it  became  of  the  quality  of  nightmare. 
She  felt  sure  that  something  had  lurked  behind  the  sug- 
gestion, for  instance,  that  they  should  take  Charlie  with 
them:  it  was  certain  also  that,  having  made  that  sug- 
gestion, he  observed  her,  watched  the  effect  of  it  on 
her.  Decidedly,  it  was  very  disquieting. 

Then  for  a  little  while  she  would  tell  herself  that  she 
was  disquieting  herself  in  vain,  and  suspected  that 
others  were  suspicious,  merely  because  she  privately 
knew  that  they  had  cause  for  it.  But  this  failed  to  en- 
courage her  for  long;  she  felt  she  was  right  to  be 


THE   CLIMBER  417 

nervous.  It  was  this  that  was  the  real  cause  of  her 
thinking  over  domestic  arrangements  so  carefully. 
She  wanted  to  be  prudent,  over-prudent  if  necessary, 
and  it  was  over-prudence  that  made  her  arrange  that 
the  house  in  Prince's  Gate  should  be  shut  up  on  the 
day  she  went  to  stay  with  Mouse.  Inconceivable  and 
monstrous  as  such  a  suspicion  would  be,  she  wanted  to 
make  it  impossible  for  Edgar  to  suspect  that  she  was 
not  going  to  Mouse.  Such  an  idea  would  be  wild  and 
utterly  baseless,  but  Lucia  had  observed  that  people 
who  are  in  a  suspicious  frame  of  mind  do  imagine  wild 
and  baseless  things.  What  a  terrible  thing  suspicion 
was ;  it  poisoned  everything ! 

There  was  another  precaution  that  ought  to  be  taken, 
but  it  was  harder  to  make  up  her  mind  upon  that. 
Edgar  probably  knew  that  Maud  was  laid  up  and  would 
not  be  going;  he  might,  in  his  present  state  of  mind, 
think  over  the  fact  that  Charlie  would  be  there.  In 
that  case,  Charlie  must  not  go.  He  must  stop  with 
Maud  in  town.  That  again  was  quite  natural :  he  did 
not  like  to  leave  Maud. 

Lucia  scribbled  a  hasty  note  to  him : 

"  Charlie — Edgar  is  not  going  to  stay  with  Mouse, 
and  as  Maud  is  laid  up  it  will  be  wiser  for  you  not  to 
go  either.  Come  to  lunch  here  to-day,  and  tell  Edgar 
this,  and  leave  again  directly  after  lunch.  I  will  ar- 
range to  see  you  somehow  before  I  go  abroad — we  are 
going  for  a  short  cruise,  E.  and  I,  in  about  ten  days — 
and  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  am  rather  frightened. 

"  LUCIA." 

Lucia  had  this  sent  at  once,  and  sat  down  again 
to  consider  whether  it  was  in  her  power  to  do  anything 


418  THE  CLIMBER 

more  to  add  further  security.  She  felt  that  somehow 
suspicion  had  come  into  his  mind,  and  that  it  had  there 
grown  and  waxed  fat,  and  it  was  necessary  firmly  and 
instantly  to  starve  it  to  death.  That  cruise  on  the 
yacht  was  surely  of  the  nature  of  starvation;  so,  too, 
would  now  be  the  days  that  must  elapse  before  they  set 
off.  On  the  day  he  went  to  Brayton  she  would  now 
necessarily  be  with  Mouse,  since  the  Prince's  Gate 
house  would  be  servantless,  and  Charlie,  he  would 
know,  would  not  be  there.  Prudence  and  discretion 
could  go  no  further. 

She  went  down  to  Edgar's  room  again  in  the  course 
of  the  morning,  and  told  him  casually,  so  she  believed, 
that  she  had  arranged  for  the  household  to  leave  Lon- 
don as  soon  as  she  went  to  stay  with  Mouse,  and  that 
the  town  house  would  be  shut  up.  But  to  a  man  who 
is  suspicious  there  is  no  such  thing  as  casual  informa- 
tion. He  believes  all  information  to  be  significant, 
though  perhaps  at  the  time  he  cannot  guess  its  signifi- 
cance, and  what  this  information  conveyed  to  him  was 
not  so  much  that  the  house  in  Prince's  Gate  would  be 
shut  up  when  he  went  to  Brayton,  but  that  Lucia 
wished  him  to  think  that  it  would  be.  What  that  meant, 
he  had  no  idea;  he  merely  believed  it  to  mean  some- 
thing. But  above  all  things,  he  did  not  want  Lucia  to 
see  his  suspicions,  and  he  was  casual  too.  And  his 
casualness,  likewise,  Lucia  read  by  the  light  of  her  own 
uneasiness.  Each  played  a  secret  part  in  the  ghastly, 
bitter  little  farce. 

Her  plans  met  with  his  approval. 

"  You  think  of  everything,  my  dear  Lucia,'*  he  said. 


THE   CLIMBER  419 

"  It  is  far  better  to  leave  the  servants  in  the  country, 
and,  as  you  say,  they  have  nothing  more  to  do  when  we 
leave  the  house  on  Monday.  You  and  your  maid  will 
join  me,  then,  on  Friday  at  the  Grosvenor  Hotel,  and 
we  start  on  Saturday  morning." 

Lucia  continued  the  prudent  course. 

* '  Yes ;  I  wish  you  were  coming  to  Ashdown,  though. 
Mouse  will  be  sorry  not  to  see  you.  Can't  you  manage 
to  come  for  one  day?  ' 

' '  I  fear  it  is  impossible.  I  see  that  my  time  will  be 
very  fully  occupied  as  it  is.  But  I  shall  be  able  to  get 
up  on  Friday  night." 

Lucia  put  in  what  she  thought  was  a  fine  piece  of 
work. 

"  If  you  don't,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  quite  refuse  to 
wait.  I  shall  telegraph  to  Charlie  and  make  him  come 
instead.  He  is  going  to  be  at  Ashdown. ' ' 

"  So  you  told  me.    Well,  I  must  go  out  now." 

"You  will  be  in  to  lunch?  " 

"  Yes.    You  have  not  got  a  party,  have  you?  " 

1 1  No ;  as  far  as  I  know  we  shall  be  quite  alone.  Not 
that  I  expect  it;  somebody  always  drops  in." 

Edgar  knew  well  when  first  he  began  to  watch  his 
wife  and  Charlie,  and  to  do  him  justice,  knew  how  stern 
and  loyal  a  struggle  he  went  through  with  himself  be- 
fore he  definitely  admitted  suspicions  into  his  mind. 
Suspicion  was  an  ugly  thing,  and  he  knew  it,  but  as 
often  as  he  thought  he  had  got  the  better  of  what  he 
had  first  told  himself  was  quite  unfounded,  some  little 
fresh  incident  occurred,  some  fragment  more  of  what 
was  now  a  complete  pattern.  Sometimes  it  would  be  a 
few  inaudible  words,  sometimes  a  look  that  passed  be- 


420  THE  CLIMBER 

tween  them ;  sometimes  it  was  the  feeling  that  inwardly 
Lucia  winced  at  his  own  touch,  at  his  very  proximity. 
It  seldom  happened  that  she  showed  this,  for  she  was 
on  her  guard,  but  now  and  then  the  truth  of  it  was 
forced  upon  him,  and  what  made  the  truth  more  patent 
to  him  was  that  whenever  she  had  betrayed  this,  how- 
ever slightly,  she  immediately  afterwards  was  demon- 
stratively affectionate  to  him.  But  he  was  by  no  means 
a  fool,  also  he  was  still  in  love  with  her,  and  he  could 
distinguish  very  well  between  a  tenderness  that  was 
diplomatic  and  a  tenderness  that  was  spontaneous. 
Then,  by  degrees,  with  a  growing  bitterness  and 
hardness,  he  thought  over  all  the  history  of  their 
marriage,  and  asked  himself  whether  she  had  ever 
loved  him,  or  whether  she  had  even  from  the  first 
only  tolerated  him.  And  that  question,  and  the 
answer  which  he  feared  to  give  to  it,  stung  him  into 
anger  and  resentment  that  made  his  heart  iron  to 
her.  How  far  she  had  seen  this  he  did  not  know;  but 
it  was  with  an  added  sense  of  humiliation  that  he  saw 
her  relief  at  the  growing  rareness  of  his  caresses,  and 
at  their  ultimate  cessation.  He  was  naturally  proud, 
and  the  position  was  intolerable,  while  his  very  pride 
prevented  him  from  speaking  to  Lucia  on  the  subject. 
Slowly  through  these  weeks  his  suspicion  had  deepened 
into  certainty,  and  now  he  was  watching  her,  not  with 
a  sense  of  the  unworthiness  of  doing  so,  but  with  the 
sense  that  it  was  his  duty.  It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that 
Lucia's  expressed  desire  to  go  yachting  with  him  alone, 
to  the  exclusion  of  Charlie,  failed  to  disarm  his  sus- 
picions. What  that  meant  he  did  not  know  for  certain, 
but  it  seemed  probable  at  least  that  she  had  become 
aware  of  them,  and  was  attempting,  with  what  now 


THE   CLIMBER  421 

seemed  to  him  transparent  futility,  to  convince  him  of 
their  groundlessness. 

But,  as  has  been  seen,  he  fell  in  with  her  suggestion 
that  they  should  cruise  alone;  for,  since  he  had  loved 
her,  and  in  love  there  is  something  immortal,  so  that 
the  utmost  wounding  cannot  quite  do  it  to  death,  he  still 
had  hold  on  the  desperate  hope  that  he  had  been  wrong 
throughout.  If  he  considered  that  with  his  reason,  it 
seemed  a  possibility  not  to  be  dreamed  of ;  but  since  he 
had  loved  her,  his  past  love  still  dreamed  of  it.  Away, 
alone  with  her,  in  the  solitude  of  another  honeymoon, 
he  would  be  able  to  test  that.  But  in  the  interval  sus- 
picion blackened  and  embittered  him.  Everything  fed 
it:  the  fact  of  the  empty  house  fed  it;  the  fact  that 
Charlie  would  be  at  Ashdown  fed  it.  It  is  always  feed- 
ing time  for  suspicion,  and  suspicion  is  omnivorous, 
and  knows  no  quenching  of  its  appetite. 

Later  in  the  day  he  was  sitting  in  his  room  with  a 
report  he  had  to  master,  but  with  a  mind  that  per- 
sistently wandered  from  it.  Several  people  had  come 
to  lunch,  and  among  them  Charlie,  who  brought  not  too 
good  an  account  of  Maud.  She  was  still  a  good  .deal 
pulled  down  by  her  attack,  and  though  she  was  up,  she 
was  depressed  and  weak.  It  would  be  so  nice  of  Lucia, 
he  said,  to  go  and  see  her,  and  convince  her  that  he  was 
right  in  having  telegraphed  to  Mouse  to  say  that  he 
must  throw  up  his  visit  and  stop  with  his  wife.  Maud 
did  not  want  him  to  do  so ;  she  said  itrwas  quite  absurd, 
and  wished  him  to  go.  Lucia  had  broken  in  at  this. 

"  Oh,  Charlie,  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "  but  I  en- 
tirely agree  with  Maud.  I  know  exactly  what  influenza 
depression  is,  and  it  is  really  much  better  to  leave  a 
person  alone.  She  doesn't  want  you.  Poor  Maud!  I 


422  THE   CLIMBER 

will  go  and  see  her  this  afternoon,  if  I  can  squeeze 
it  in." 

Charlie  caught  Lucia's  eye. 

"  Oh,  well,  then,  don't  go  and  see  her,  if  you  mean 
to  say  that, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  want  you  to  back  me  up,  and 
not  her.  I'm  not  going  to  Mouse ;  that  is  quite  settled. ' ' 

Lucia  had  seen  Madge  again  that  morning,  who  had 
condemned  her  rejection  of  Charlie  as  yacht-compan- 
ion. Lucia  had  seen  the  point  when  it  was  shown  her, 
and  here  was  a  heaven-sent  opportunity  to  repair  the 
error.  To  urge  Charlie  to  come  to  Ashdown  would  be 
the  correction  of  any  inference  Edgar  might  have 
drawn  last  night. 

"  But  it's  too  disappointing,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
reckoning  on  your  being  there.  Edgar  and  I  are  going 
off  at  the  end  of  the  week,  and  you  will  have  gone  to 
St.  Moritz  before  we  get  back,  and  we  shan't  meet  for 
two  thousand  years.  Oh,  do  come !  ' 

But  Charlie  had  remained  firm.  He  had  also  left 
the  house  immediately  after  lunch. 

It  was  this  that  got  between  Edgar  and  his  book. 
This  morning  it  had  been  the  fact  that  Charlie  was 
going  to  be  at  Ashdown  that  had  been  food  for  sus- 
picion. Now  he  was  not  going  to  be  there,  and  still 
suspicion  fed  and  fattened.  He  did  not  know  what  it 
meant,  but  soon  it  would  fit  into  its  place,  if  he  thought 
about  it.  And  then  quite  suddenly  and  quite  securely 
it  fitted  into  the  poisoned  map  that  his  mind  made. 
Next  to  it  came  the  empty  house.  How  it  fitted  he  did 
not  quite  know,  but  he  felt  the  edge  to  be  flush  and 
firm. 

And  then  for  a  moment  he  cast  the  map  aside,  telling 


THE   CLIMBER  423 

himself,  as  was  indeed  true,  that  he  was  doing  Lucia 
a  hideous  injustice.  This,  at  any  rate,  was  causeless — 
absolutely  causeless.  Whatever  she  did  he  turned  into 
edible  form  for  his  poisonous  brood :  last  night  it  was 
the  fact  that  she  did  not  want  Charlie's  companionship 
that  was  capable  to  him  of  only  one  explanation ;  to-day 
the  fact  that  she  did  appeared  equally  suggestive. 
Again,  that  he  should  go  to  Ashdown  when  Lucia  was 
there  f  9vered  him ;  now,  that  he  should  not  go  to  Ash- 
down  had  the  same  effect.  Frankly,  he  acknowledged 
to  himself  the  unreasonableness  and  the  meanness  of 
his  thoughts.  But  he  could  not  expel  them ;  they  came 
back  and  back,  swarming  like  brown  evil  flies  over 
carrion. 

Three  days  later  Lucia  was  sitting  over  her  fire  in 
her  bedroom  before  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 
There  was  a  huge  party  in  the  house,  a  party  that 
should  have  been  very  amusing — at  any  rate,  the  same 
party,  more  or  less,  that  amused  her  immensely  on 
other  occasions.  All  the  right  people  were  there,  and, 
what  made  more  difference,  there  were  none  of  the 
wrong  ones.  But  Lucia,  in  the  twenty-four  hours  that 
had  elapsed  since  she  arrived,  had  not  been  in  the  least 
degree  amused.  Yet  she  had  not  been  bored;  her 
thoughts  had  been  desperately  busy. 

It  was  Tuesday.  On  Friday  night  she  was  to  go  up 
to  town,  join  Edgar  at  the  Grosvenor  Hotel,  and  go  off 
with  him  next  day.  They  would  cruise  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean; then  they  would  be  busy  with  their  shooting 
parties,  and  before  they  were  over  Maud  and  her  hus- 
band would  have  started  for  St.  Moritz.  It  would  be 
weeks — months — before  she  saw  Charlie  again,  and 


424  THE  CLIMB  EB 

there  were  things  she  must  tell  him — he  must  know 
the  reason  for  her  guardedness,  else  he  might  think 
she  wanted  to  break  with  him.  It  was  that  thought 
which  was  intolerable,  which  obsessed  her,  which  pre- 
vented her  enjoyment  of  this  thoroughly  congenial  so- 
ciety. And  it  never  left  her;  her  laugh  would  wither 
in  mid-air,  dropping  dead.  She  would  be  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence,  and  the  sentence  would  go  lopped  and 
maimed.  And  people,  she  felt  sure,  were  beginning  to 
notice  these  things.  She  was  not  herself;  anybody 
could  see  that,  and  what  lay  between  her  and  herself 
was  this  difficulty :  she  could  not  conceive  how,  with  the 
prudence  she  was  determined  to  exercise,  she  could 
see  him  again  before  she  left  England  on  this  deadly 
and  necessary  trip. 

All  that  was  honest  enough;  it  was  all  there,  but 
much  more  was  there  which  she  refused  to  acknowl- 
edge. It  was  the  pith  of  the  whole  which  she  disowned 
—namely,  her  overwhelming  desire  to  see  him.  In- 
tolerable as  was  the  thought  that  he  might  imagine  she 
had  wished  to  bring  an  end  to  their  intimacy,  it  was 
more  intolerable  that  she  should  be  unable  to  see  him 
just  once  again  and  tell  him  that  it  was  not  so.  She 
had  decided  that  he  should  not  come  to  Ashdown  while 
she  was  there,  since  Edgar  was  not  with  her  nor  Maud 
with  him.  That  had  been  a  hateful  necessity,  but  neces- 
sary. More  imperative  now  was  the  necessity  of  see- 
ing him.  But  how?  How? 

There  were  many  possible  ways,  all  faced  by  some 
grand  impossibility.  Mouse,  for  instance,  would  be 
charmed  if  he  telegraphed  Maud's  improvement,  and 
suggested  he  should  come  here  for  a  night  or  two.  But 


THE   CLIMBER  425 

grand  impossibility  faced  that ;  if  she  had  been  right — 
and  she  felt  sure  she  had  been — in  prohibiting  his  visit 
at  all,  she  would  be  terribly  wrong  in  getting  him  to 
come  now.  Things  got  into  the  papers ;  two  lines  to  say 
that  Mr.  Lindsay  had  joined  the  Duchess  of  Wiltshire's 
party  at  Ashdown  was  a  sufficient  match  for  the 
powder-magazine  of  Edgar's  mind.  That  clearly 
would  not  do.  Slight  though  the  risk  was,  it  was  still 
a  risk,  and  Lucia,  that  hunted  soul,  wanted  no  risks. 

Or,  again,  she  might  go  back  to  town  upon  Thursday, 
stay  at  an  hotel,  and  get  him  to  dine  with  her.  At  the 
Carlton,  for  instance,  under  the  blare  of  the  band,  she 
could  tell  him  of  the  danger.  She  could  also  see  him 
again,  which  was  a  more  instant  need.  Yet  that  would 
not  do ;  a  chance  paragraph  might  again  wreck  all.  It 
was  possible  that  Edgar  might  take  up  a  paper  which 
recorded  that  she  had  dined  at  the  Carlton  one  night 
when  she  was  supposed  to  be  staying  at  Ashdown.  It 
might  even  say,  in  case  Charlie  was  recognized,  who 
dined  with  her.  Explanation,  of  course,  would  be 
simple :  she  had  shopping  to  do  in  town,  and  since  the 
house  in  Prince's  Gate  was  shut  up,  she  dined  and 
slept  at  the  Carlton.  Certainly  Charlie  had  dined  with 
her ;  why  not?  Maud  would  have,  but  was  still  laid  up. 
She  had  asked  them  both,  but  Maud  had  not  come. 
What  did  anybody  mean? 

Then  in  a  flash  Lucia  saw  that  which  had  been  a  sub- 
ject of  suspicion,  though  meaningless,  to  her  husband, 
a  few  days  before.  The  publicity  of  a  hotel  was  im- 
possible; it  was  impossible  that  she  should  get  Charlie 
to  come  to  Ashdown.  But  there  was  an  empty  house 
in  London,  which  was  hers,  and  no  one  except  the  care- 


426  THE   CLIMBER 

taker  and  his  wife  would  know  she  had  been  in  town. 
What  if  she  made  a  perfectly  reasonable  excuse  to 
Mouse  on  the  ground  of  shopping,  and  went  to  town  on 
Thursday.  Chops  were  possible  even  in  dismantled 
houses ;  she  could  dine  there,  if  chops  were  dinner,  see 
Charlie  there,  and  speak  to  him  very  strongly  on  the 
subject  of  discretion.  It  was  so  important ;  he  must  be 
brought  to  see  that.  It  was  impossible  to  explain 
things  by  letters,  and  letters  in  themselves  were  so  dan- 
gerous. Also  letters  were  so  hard,  so  wooden.  But 
with  him  beside  her  she  could  make  him  feel  how  she 
loathed  and  rebelled  against  this  forced,  this  necessary, 
surrender  to  what  prudence  dictated.  It  was  only  tem- 
porary. 

The  consistent  falsity  of  her  life  came  to-night  to  its 
logical  conclusion.  For  years  she  had  deceived  others 
— those  who  most  trusted  and  loved  her — whenever 
she  could  suck  but  a  small  advantage  therefrom, 
but  she  had  not  deceived  herself.  But  now,  in 
a  matter  so  supreme  as  this,  she  achieved  this 
crowning  result,  and  when  she  told  herself  that 
it  was  in  order  to  explain  the  policy  of  dis- 
cretion to  her  lover  that  she  was  going  to  meet  him, 
she  believed  it.  She  reined  her  imagination  in;  she 
would  not  let  it  spring  forward  to  forecast  the  details 
of  their  meeting,  its  setting  in  the  shrouded  house,  his 
arrival,  the  picnic  dinner  they  would  have  together,  the 
long  talk  which  would  burn  up  the  hours  of  the  evening 
like  fire.  All  that  she  hid  even  from  herself. 

The  moment  that  her  plan  flashed  into  her  mind  she 
executed  the  things  that  were  necessary  for  its  realiza- 
tion, and  wrote  at  once  to  the  caretaker,  saying  that 
she  would  be  coming  up  for  Thursday  night,  would 


THE   CLIMBER  427 

want  the  plainest  of  dinners  for  herself  and  a  friend, 
and — that  she  would  not  bring  her  maid.  It  was  better 
so ;  she  should  come  up  with  the  big  luggage  on  Friday, 
and  go  straight  to  the  Grosvenor  Hotel.  A  couple  of 
lines  to  Charlie  completed  the  arrangements. 

Only  one  thing  remained  for  consideration,  and  that 
was  what  excuse  exactly  she  should  give  Mouse.  Shop- 
ping was  a  poor  reason ;  everybody  said  shopping  when 
she  meant  something  else ;  it  was  not  solid  enough,  not 
convincing  enough.  Then — the  evening  post  having 
just  been  brought  to  her,  she  thought  of  something 
much  better,  and  went  to  seek  her  hostess.  But  to- 
night she  felt  there  would  be  no  more  withering  of  her 
laugh  in  mid-air,  no  lopped  and  maimed  sentences.  The 
joy  of  life  had  come  back  to  her,  the  rage  for  love  and 
living. 

' '  Dear  Mouse, ' '  she  said,  when  she  found  her  in  her 
bedroom,  "  Edgar  is  too  tiresome  and  worrying  for 
words.  Having  carefully  settled  to  start  on  Saturday, 
he  now  proposes  to  start  on  Friday.  What  am  I 
to  do?  " 

Mouse  drew  another  chair  up  to  the  fire;  it  was  a 
frosty  evening,  and  the  exhilaration  of  the  cold  had  en- 
tered into  the  blaze.  Exhilaration,  too,  so  she  thought, 
had  entered  into  Lucia,  in  spite  of  this  tiresome  pro- 
posal. 

"  Do?  "  she  said.  "  Don't.  It  is  a  woman's  pre- 
rogative to  change  her  plans  at  the  last  moment,  not  a 
man's.  It  seems  to  me  that  men  are  invading  our  prov- 
inces. They  have  headaches  and  drink  tea.  Don't  go, 
Lucia.  Be  calm  and  firm." 


428  THE   CLIMBER 

"  But  I'm  not;  I'm  furious.  He  really  must  think 
he  is  Providence,  upsetting  things  in  this  way." 

'*  Shall  I  telegraph  to  him,"  asked  Mouse.  "  I  will 
with  pleasure,  just  saying  that  if  necessary  you  shall 
be  kept  here  by  force." 

Lucia  laughed. 

"  I  wish  you  could,"  she  said,  "  but  Edgar  wouldn't 
see  that  you  were  serious.  He  would  think  it  was  a 
joke.  How  annoying  he  is !  But  you  must  remember 
that  I  have  to  spend  a  fortnight  all  alone  with  him  on 
the  yacht.  If  I  simply  refused  to  go  a  day  earlier  he 
would  be  so  very  polite  and  dignified,  which  I  can't 
stand.  I  abhor  dignity. ' ' 

"  Well,  it  all  depends,  then,  on  what  you  abhor 
most,"  said  Mouse,  "  dignity  or  having  your  arrange- 
ments upset." 

Lucia  poked  the  fire  viciously. 

"  Oh,  dignity  is  the  worse,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  do 
as  he  wishes.  It's  so  unfair,  though,  for  unless  I  do  it 
with  the  best  grace  in  the  world  it  will  be  as  bad  as  not 
doing  it  at  all.  Yes,  I  shall  do  it,  and  pretend  it  suits 
me  perfectly.  No  one  can  say  that  I  don 't  do  my  duty. 
What  an  angel  was  born  into  this  malicious  world 
twenty-five  years  ago !  Sometimes  I  am  so  good  that 
I  am  almost  afraid  I  shall  die  in  the  night. ' ' 

"  Oh,  be  very  careful,"  said  Mouse.  "  But,  really, 
you  are  too  amiable.  You  will  have  to  leave  us  on 
Thursday,  then?  Edgar's  Grosvenor  Hotel  plans  are 
quite  too  funny  for  anything.  I  wonder  he  doesn  't  get 
leave  to  sleep  in  the  carriage  that  will  form  part  of  the 
train  next  day." 

"  For  heaven's  sake  don't  suggest  it  to  him!  "  said 
Lucia.  "  He  would  certainly  do  it,  and  wonder  he 


THE  CLIMBEB  429 

hadn't  thought  of  it  before.    Dear,  dear  I  how  nicely  we 
should  all  get  on  if  it  wasn't  for  our  husbands  I  " 

"  That  is  a  profound  observation,"  said  Mouse. 
*  *  But  then,  on  the  whole,  it  is  possible  to  get  on  fairly 
well  with  them. ' ' 

Edgar  found  plenty  to  occupy  him  at  Brayton,  but  it 
was  that  which  he  brought  with  him  that  occupied  him 
most  of  all.  Day  and  night  there  sat  in  its  dark  corner 
of  his  mind  the  grey  form  of  his  distrust  and  suspicion. 
Sometimes,  even  now,  though  it  had  become  so  solid 
and  real,  he  could  make  it,  so  to  speak,  close  its  eyes, 
and  doze,  but  it  was  only  by  the  strongest  effort  on  his 
part  that  he  could  thus  lull  it  to  rest,  and  even  then  it 
did  not  quit  its  corner,  it  still  sat  there,  though  for  the 
time  it  might  be  quiescent.  It  was  chiefly  when  he  was 
with  his  child  and  Lucia's  that  these  moments  of  its 
quiescence  came;  with  that  chuckling,  crowing  atom 
which  was  bone  of  her  bone,  and  contained  life  also  that 
was  in  him,  he  could,  though  by  an  effort,  make  himself 
believe  that  he  had  made  a  gross  and  well-nigh  unfor- 
giveable  mistake,  that  it  was  her  due  that  he  should 
ask  her  pardon  abjectly,  imploringly,  humbly  for  these 
weeks  of  poisoned  thought  that  had  so  incessantly  and 
causelessly  wronged  her.  And  at  such  moments  it 
seemed  to  him  that  a  wraith  of  himself  stood  by  him 
and  reproached  him,  that  wraith  of  his  true  self  which 
had  loved  her,  and  was,  indeed,  save  that  it  inhabited 
his  flesh  and  bones,  an  entity  which  no  longer  had  any- 
thing in  common  with  that  which  made  up  his  present 
consciousness.  Then,  even  while  the  spell  of  their 
child's  presence  was  with  him,  the  wraith  of  his  true 
self  would  vanish  again,  and  he  would  aek  himself  what 


430  THE   CLIMBER 

this  child  who  was  so  much  to  him  had  been,  or  was, 
to  its  mother;  whether  she  had  ever  shown  sign  that 
she  knew  how  this  living  link  was  that  which  made  her 
unity  with  him. 

But  there  had  no  such  sign  been  shown.  Neither  to 
him,  since  the  birth  of  their  child,  nor  to  it  had  she 
given  that  spontaneous  abandonment  of  herself  that  is 
what  wifehood  and  motherhood  mean.  And  the  eyes  of 
the  grey  form  that  sat  in  the  dusk  were  open  again 
and  fixed  on  him.  It  seemed  to  have  moved  a  little 
nearer,  too,  and  the  darkness  that  enshrouded  it  had 
lifted  a  little. 

Step  by  step  he  went  back  over  the  road  which  they 
had  walked  together  since  their  marriage,  once  so 
strewn  with  roses.  Stately  and  splendid  it  had  been  as 
he  trod  it  with  her;  they  had  walked  to  the  sound  of 
flutes,  and  the  beauty  of  all  that  was  lovely  in  the  world 
of  art  had  been  brought  to  adorn  it.  But  looking  back 
to-day  it  seemed  that  all  he  had  thought  lovely  was 
blackened  and  grimed,  and  the  hoofs  of  Satyrs,  leering 
and  diabolic,  had  trodden  the  roses  into  the  filth  over 
which  they  had  been  laid.  From  the  beginning  there 
had  been  nothing  true  or  real  about  it  all ;  he  had  wor- 
shipped a  monstrous  thing,  and  its  monstrosity  had  in- 
fected all  that  had  come  near  it. 

And  then  for  a  moment  he  would  look  on  that  sun- 
beam of  a  child  again,  and  he  would  tell  himself  that 
there  was  nothing  monstrous  except  his  own  stupen- 
dous disloyalty  to  Lucia. 

These  nightmares  of  thought  came  like  repeated  at- 
tacks of  some  nameless  fever.  But  each  weakened  him ; 
after  each  it  was  more  difficult  to  rally,  and  he  felt  that 
he  would  go  off  his  head  altogether  unless  he  could  ar- 


THE   CLIMBER  431 

rive  at  some  certainty.  Yet  how  was  that  to  be  done? 
Whatever  Lucia  had  done,  whether  the  truth  was  that 
he  by  his  suspicions  had  so  sinned  against  her,  or 
whether  it  was  she  who  had  sinned  against  him,  there 
was  nothing  that  would  satisfy  him  in  the  wounded  and 
incredulous  anger  that  must  be  her  answer  to  any 
direct  question  of  his.  Since  he  entertained  those  vile 
suspicions  of  her,  he  necessarily  would  not  be  con- 
vinced— the  evil  part  of  him  that  suspected  her,  that 
is  to  say,  by  any  indignant  and  fiery  denial  of  hers.  It 
could  not  be  through  her  that  his  distrust  must  be  set 
at  rest;  he  must  convince  himself  independently  of 
her.  He  must  frame  to  himself  a  definite  suspicion, 
and — test  it.  Yet  how  mean,  how  abhorrent!  What 
would  be  his  own  feelings  if  he  found  that  Lucia  had 
ever  spied  on  him  f 

But  the  idea  recurred  and  recurred  again.  He  often 
put  it  away,  but  as  often  it  came  back.  And  he  found 
by  degrees  that  he  was  not  putting  it  so  far  away  as 
he  did  when  first  it  presented  itself. 

He  was  busying  himself  the  morning  after  his  ar- 
rival at  Brayton  with  that  which  had  formed  part  of  the 
cause  of  his  coming,  and  was  overhauling  his  photo- 
graphic apparatus.  He  was  more  than  a  mere  ama- 
teur at  photography,  and  his  equipment  was  singularly 
complete.  There  was  a  big  full-plate  camera,  which  he 
used  chiefly  for  time  exposures  in  interiors;  he  had 
made  some  extraordinarily  fine  photographs  of  the 
bronzes  in  the  Museum  of  the  Acropolis  with  this,  and 
as  he  was  considering  whether  on  the  Riviera  there 
would  conceivably  be  a  use  for  it,  there  came  into  his 
mind  a  day  he  and  Lucia  had  spent  on  the  Acrop- 


432  THE   CLIMBER 

oils  on  their  first  tour.  It  was  with  the  vividness  of  a 
thing  actually  seen  with  his  eyes  now  and  here  that  he 
recalled  a  particular  moment  when  she  had  come  into 
the  room  when  he  was  photographing. 

11  Oh,  Edgar,"  she  said,  "it  is  spring,  and  outside 
*  blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. '  Do  let  us  go 
out  on  to  Pentelicus  this  afternoon,  instead  of  spending 
it  photographing.  If  you  must  photograph,  yon  may 
photograph  me.  I  will  pose  on  a  bed  of  asphodel  and 
moly. ' ' 

And  suddenly  his  breath  caught  in  his  throat. 

No ;  there  would  be  no  need  for  taking  this  big  time- 
exposure  camera.  Whatever  photography  he  did  would 
be  in  the  open  air.  Yet  Lucia  had  asked  him  once  to 
photograph  her  "  dear  cabin  "  on  the  yacht,  and,  not 
having  a  plate  to  spare,  he  had  not  done  so.  Very  likely 
she  would  ask  him  again;  it  was  worth  taking  the 
camera,  then.  It  had  a  wider  lens  than  the  other;  noth- 
ing else  at  such  close  quarters  could  take  more  than  a 
section  of  the  cabin.  By  using  the  widest  stop,  he  eould 
take  the  whole  side  of  it  with  this.  There  was  her  bed 
along  one  side,  a  table  which  she  called  "  Utility/'  be- 
cause she  wrote  at  it ;  another  which  she  called  '  *  Floro- 
dora,"  because  she  had  nothing  but  flowers  on  it.  No; 
it  was  he  who  had  suggested  those  names;  hers  had 
been  the  delighted  acceptance  of  them. 

He  took  hold  of  his  mind  again,  and  shook  it  up. 
These  thoughts  would  lead  on  to  other  thoughts,  and 
his  present  business  was  with  cameras.  There  was  a 
focal-plane  camera  which  was  supposed  to  work  at  a 
fifteen-hundreth  part  of  a  second.  But  when  he  used  it 
last  it  struck  him  that  the  shutter  did  not  move  quite  as 
quickly  as  it  ought.  It  would  be  well  to  test  this,  for  in 


THECLIMBEB  433 

the  bright  glare  of  the  Riviera  its  fastest  pace  was  not 
at  all  top  quick.  If  it  was  still  working  sluggishly,  it 
must  be  looked  to  before  he  went  South. 

Edgar  had  the  films  handy,  and  put  a  roll  in;  then, 
with  it  in  his  hand,  he  went  to  the  window.  Outside  the 
brilliance  of  the  morning  rivalled  the  Southern  sun, 
and  he  only  wanted  some  quickly  moving  object  on 
which  to  test  the  shutter.  It  happened  to  be  focussed, 
he  saw,  for  six  yards,  and  even  at  the  moment  there 
came  the  crunch  of  gravel  outside,  and  round  the  corner 
in  the  perambulator  came  his  son.  The  child  knew 
him,  and  opened  his  mouth  in  an  ecstatic  "  Daddy," 
which  for  him  comprised  the  English  language 
("  Mammy  "  he  had  never  learned),  and  Edgar 
pressed  the  air-bulb  which  worked  the  shutter.  If  the 
camera  was  in  good  order,  the  child's  mouth  ought  to 
be  quite  sharp. 

He  said  a  word  or  two  to  the  nurse,  said  also  that 
Daddy  was  busy,  and  went  back  to  develop  the  photo- 
graph. The  shutter  was  beyond  doubt  very  badly  out 
of  order.  It  must  certainly  be  seen  to.  That  ought  to 
be  done  at  its  maker's  in  town ;  one  could  not  trust  these 
provincial  people.  But  he  would  only  arrive  in  London 
on  Friday  evening,  and  they  were  to  start  on  Saturday 
morning.  It  was  a  pity  to  send  those  things  by  post; 
they  often  got  jarred.  Perhaps  he  could  manage  to  go 
up  to  town  a  little  earlier.  He  might  manage  to  get  up 
on  Friday  morning;  there  were  sure  to  be  other  little 
jobs  to  be  done.  Or  even  earlier  than  that;  a  whole 
day  in  London  before  one  went  abroad  always  meant  a 
full  day.  But  the  Prince's  Gate  house  was  shut  up; 
the  servants  had  all  come  down,  according  to  Lucia's 
admirable  arrangement.  He  would  have  to  stay  some- 


434  THE   CLIMBER 

where  else;  there  was  nothing  so  cheerless  as  a  solitary 
night  in  a  disbanded  house. 

And  then,  suddenly  as  the  lightning-flash,  other 
pieces  and  ends  of  thoughts  rushed  together  and  joined 
themselves  to  this.  There  had  been  in  his  mind  cause- 
less suspicion  of  that  empty  house ;  that  came  side  by 
side  with  the  question  of  the  defective  camera,  and  was 
joined  to  it.  There  had  been  the  necessity  for  finding 
out,  in  some  way  other  than  that  of  asking  direct  ques- 
tions, the  truth  or  falsity  of  all  that  poisoned  him ;  that 
was  there  in  the  same  flash.  He  had  found  himself  a 
specious  excuse  for  doing  what  was  mean  and  abhor- 
rent. A  call  at  Prince's  Gate  was  more  than  reason- 
able; indeed,  he  had  left  an  aquascutum  there,  which 
he  really  wanted  to  take  abroad  with  him.  No  doubt 
his  valet  might  fetch  it,  but  it  was  better  to  see  to  things 
oneself. 

This  lightning-flash  of  connection  between  things 
hitherto  unconnected  was  brief  enough,  and  it  had 
passed  almost  as  soon  as  it  occurred.  But,  in  the  mys- 
terious alchemy  of  the  human  mind,  it  is  ordained  that 
a  thought  once  entertained  has  easier  access  when  it 
calls  for  the  second  time  than  it  has  had  when  first  it 
presented  itself.  It  has  written  its  microscopic  little 
wrinkle  or  dot  on  the  brain ;  when  next  it  passes  that 
way  that  wrinkle  will  nod  and  beckon  to  it. 

Edgar  had  things  to  be  seen  to  in  Brayton  that  after- 
noon. ItVas  true  that  his  presence  there  or  personal 
interviews  were  not  necessary,  but  in  this  hell  of  fears 
and  suspicion  and  suspense  he  wanted  and  longed  for 
employment.  There  were  so  few  days  to  be  got 
through ;  could  he  but  hold  himself  in  hand  till  he  and 


THE   CLIMBER  435 

Lucia  were  safely  off  from  Victoria,  speeding  South, 
alone  and  together,  he  felt  that  some  certainty  would 
come.  He  tried  by  business  and  employment  to  root 
out  from  his  mind  the  crooked  course  that  had  already 
indicated  itself,  that  had  done  more  than  that,  and  had 
insisted  on  its  being  the  only  satisfactory  course.  And 
it  was  his  very  best  self — the  best  self,  too,  of  which 
any  man  is  capable — that  tried  to  scare  away  the  bat- 
like  shapes  that  hovered  round  him,  by  refusing  to 
allow  his  mind  to  recognize  their  existence.  He  wanted 
to  do  anything  rather  than  be  at  leisure  to  perceive 
them.  Whatever  else  was  foul  or  fair,  they  were  foul. 
Foul  he  had  been  in  entertaining  them,  in  being  at 
leisure  to  receive  them  all  these  weeks,  and  now  that 
they  suggested  a  practical  plan,  he  could  at  least  refuse 
to  give  it  consideration.  Only  a  few  hours  ago  he  had 
longed  for  certainty  at  whatever  cost;  now,  when  the 
definite  idea  of  testing  his  suspicion  of  the  empty  house 
occurred  to  him  as  practically  and  reasonably  possible, 
he  tried  to  put  it  away.  Already  he  had  strayed  far; 
how  much  better  to  have  gone  with  Lucia  to  Ashdown, 
and  left  the  damned  photographic  apparatus  to  be  in 
order  or  not,  just  as  it  pleased.  Yet  for  a  while  his  sus- 
picions had  been  at  rest  when  Charlie  himself  announced 
as  a  new  plan  that  he  would  not  go  down  to  Ashdown, 
but  stop  in  town  with  Maud.  Or  had  suspicion  ever 
been  wholly  at  rest!  Had  he  not  instantly  connected 
Charlie 's  presence  in  town  with  the  empty  house  ? 

The  rows  of  well-ordered  villas  streamed  by  him. 
There  was  Holywell  and  Holyrood  and  Laburnums  and 
Cedars,  all  with  their  inhabitants,  all  with  their  possi- 
bilities of  tragedy  or  rapture,  all  so  much  smaller  than 
himself  as  regards  that  which  the  world  recognizes  as 


436  THE   CLIMBEE 

the  possibilities  of  life,  but  all  quite  as  large  as  he,  to 
say  the  least,  as  regards  the  possibilities  of  those  things 
which  make  life  a  thing  that  is  raised  just  a  little  higher 
than  existence.  He  had  meant — Lucia  had  ardently 
backed  his  desire — to  turn  some  sort  of  cultured  sun 
on  to  these  suburbanly  provincial  residences,  to  speak 
to  them  of  fireworks  and  Botticelli,  and  God  knows 
what.  But  what  if,  after  all,  the  majority  of  these  de- 
cayed and  effete  old  ladies  and  gentlemen  possessed 
that  which  he  now  found  he  prized  above  all  else  and 
had  missed  ?  What  if  in  the  Laburnums  an  old  General 
and  his  rheumatic  spouse  dwelt  together  in  quiet  con- 
tent, and  were  yearly  cheered  by  the  visit  of  that  dar- 
ling naval  officer  in  the  King's  service,  their  son? 
What  if  the  last  Mayor  but  two,  a  man  without  an  "  h," 
found  in  the  Cedars  a  tranquillity  and  happiness  that 
was  lacking  to  those  who  looked  at  Corots,  and  saw 
slightly  doubtful  plays  acted  beneath  that  superb  vault 
of  the  theatre  he  had  built  at  Brayton!  And  then 

Next  the  Cedars  was  Fair  View.  The  car  had  passed 
it  before  it  could  slow  down  to  the  pace  that  was  nec- 
essary to  enter  the  narrow  gate  and  take  the  ellipse  of 
the  "  carriage  sweep,"  but  with  a  little  hooting  and 
grunting  it  backed  its  way  into  the  gate  labelled 
"  Out,"  which  Aunt  Cathie  had  caused  to  be  repainted. 
There  were  no  other  chariots  in  the  carriage  sweep ;  the 
possible  difficulty  of  compelling  them  to  back  into  the 
road  was  non-existent. 

Edgar  got  out  and  rang  the  bell.  It  was  not  so  far 
off  that  the  twitched  wire  caused  the  jangle,  and  stand- 
ing there  on  the  doorstep,  it  was  no  longer  ' '  here  and 
now"  with  him,  but  here  and  on  a  day  that  seemed  so 
long  past  that  it  had,  till  the  bell  scolded  in  the  base- 


THE   CLIMBER  437 

ment,  no  existence  at  all.  But  that  sound  conjured  the 
past  up  again  out  of  the  well  of  the  relentless  years ;  it 
was  almost  with  expectation  that  he  was  silent  for  the 
whistle  from  above  that  should  recall  Schubert's  "  Un- 
finished "  to  him;  it  was  almost  with  conviction  that  he 
looked  at  the  sill  of  the  drawing-room  window,  thinking1 
to  see  there  the  broad-brimmed  rush-hat,  with  the 
scarlet  bow.  Yet,  simultaneously,  sickness  and  ache  of 
heart  was  his ;  whether  it  was  she,  the  same  she  who  had 
come  downstairs  to  greet  him  who  now  was  staying  at 
Ashdown,  he  dared  not  think.  He  but  knew  that  some- 
body else,  not  the  he  who  had  heard  the  jangling  bell 
before  on  a  day  of  brilliant  sunshine,  stood  here  now 
waiting  for  the  bell  to  be  answered.  Another  being 
usurped  his  envelope;  somebody  not  looking  eagerly 
forward,  but  looking  hopelessly  back ;  somebody  sick  at 
heart,  tired,  tired  with  a  struggle  that  made  him  mo- 
mently weaker,  who  found  the  present  intolerable  in- 
stead of  finding  the  future  bright. 

There  was  an  irony  in  external  things.  He  remem- 
bered that  flies  buzzed  on  the  wall ;  in  this  sheltered  No- 
vember sunshine  they  buzzed  there  now;  flowers  had 
been  bright  below  the  windows,  and  to-day  the  scarlet 
salvia  still  showed  traces  of  its  bravery,  and  chysan- 
themums  blazed  and  smouldered.  But  the  quality  of 
the  sun  was  changed.  It  had  been  June  then. 

He  had  stopped  the  car,  told  the  chauffeur  to  back 
into  the  narrow  gate  instinctively;  but  as  he  waited, 
while  still  the  bell  had  not  ceased  to  jangle,  his  instinct 
translated  itself  into  purpose  that  could  be  stated  and 
reasoned  over.  Not  much  reasoning  was  necessary; 
simply  he  wanted  to  get  back  into  the  atmosphere  that 
had  once  been  radiant.  Some  brightness  might  linger 


438  THE   CLIMBER 

here,  when  he  saw  the  little  dingy  hall,  the  confined 
little  sitting-room  and  perhaps  the  tiny  veranda  that 
looked  out  over  the  lawn  and  the  railway  embankment. 
His  heart  ached  for  the  Lucia  of  those  days,  whether 
she  was  real  or  false  then ;  he  wanted  the  belief  that  she 
was  real.  That  might  help  him  now;  she  might  be  on 
his  side,  phantom  though  she  should  prove  to  be,  to 
fight  the  deadlier  phantom  that  sat  at  home  with  him 
underneath  the  Corots. 

There  succeeded  to  the  clangour  of  the  bell  a  long 
silence.  Then  from  upstairs  came  the  sound  of  de- 
scending feet,  and  the  door  was  opened.  It  was  not 
Arbuthnot  who  opened  it,  nor  the  godly  Mrs.  Inglis, 
who  performed  such  functions  when  Arbuthnot  had  her 
afternoons  out ;  it  was  Aunt  Cathie.  She  saw  him,  and 
threw  the  door  wide. 

11  Why,  if  I  ever!  "  she  said.  "  Dear  Edgar,  if  yon 
had  only  told  me !  And  I'm  not  fit  to  be  seen.  Lucia  is 
not  with  you?  " 

"  No,  Aunt  Cathie;  she  is  away.  I  am  at  Brayton 
for  a  day  or  two  before  we  go  abroad,  looking  out 
photographic  things." 

Aunt  Cathie  was  still  in  crackling  black  of  the  nature 
of  bombazine,  though  it  was  over  a  year  since  Elizabeth 
had  died.  But  the  crackling  black  was  worn  and  brown- 
ish; the  magisterial  precision  which  had  been  so  char- 
acteristic of  Aunt  Cathie  was  lacking  in  her  now,  both 
as  regards  dress  and  address.  She  seemed  softened, 
faded. 

'  But  how  nice  of  you  to  come  and  see  me,"  she  said, 
'*  though  the  most  dreadful  thing  has  happened.  There 
is  nobody  in;  I  am  quite  alone  in  the  house.  My  serv- 


THE   CLIMBER  439 

ants  " — her  voice  stumbled  and  faltered  a  moment — 
'  *  are  all  out.  It  was  such  a  fine  afternoon.  But  I  will 
give  you  some  tea." 

The  ghosts  of  past  days  were  on  the  wing  now,  flut- 
tering, dancing,  laughing,  calling  to  him  out  of  the  time 
when  it  was  dawn  with  love.  He  could  not  but  remem- 
ber that  it  was  thus  that  Lucia  had  received  him  at 
Littlestone;  the  servants  had  been  out,  and  they  had 
had  tea  in  the  kitchen  with  an  infinity  of  tender  mirth. 
With  the  true  history  of  that  day  he  had  never  been 
made  acquainted,  for  the  effect  of  its  narration  on 
Maud  was  not  such  as  would  encourage  Lucia  to  make 
further  confidences  about  it.  But  to-day,  when  the 
situation,  so  infinitesimal  in  itself,  was  so  strangely 
repeated,  it  was  not  with  mirth  that  Aunt  Cathie  an- 
nounced it.  She  was  evidently  agitated  and  pre- 
occupied. 

"  But  let  us  have  it  in  the  kitchen,"  he  said,  "  just  as 
Lucia  and  I  did  at  Littlestone.  It  will  remind  me  of 
that  day,  and  I  want  to  be  reminded." 

They  had  passed  into  the  drawing-room,  and  Edgar, 
still  beckoned  to  by  the  ghosts  of  past  days,  looked 
round  for  the  things  that  were  so  familiar.  But  the 
piano,  where  the  "  Unfinished  "  had  stood,  was  no 
longer  there,  and  bookcases  gaped  with  empty  shelves. 

"  But  the  piano,"  he  said,  "  and  the  books?  " 

Aunt  Cathie  drew  herself  up  with  a  quiet  dignity. 

"  I  was  cluttered  up  with  things,"  she  said.  "  It 
was  more  convenient  to  part  with  some  of  them.  There 
is  no  inconvenience  in  not  having  a  piano,  especially 
when  you  can't  play.  And  as  for  books,  what  is  the  use 
of  dusting  what  you  don 't  read  ?  And  now,  dear  Edgar, 
the  kettle  is  boiling,  and  the  tray  is  outside.  Might  I 


440  THE   CLIMBER 

trouble  you  to  bring  it  in,  while  I  run  down  to  the 
kitchen  and  see  if  they  have  sent  in  the  cake  I  ordered. 
If  not,  you  must  be  content  with  some  bread  and 
butter." 

It  required  no  unusual  perspicacity  to  put  these 
things  together,  and  while  Aunt  Cathie  was  downstairs 
he  went  with  purpose  and  looked  out  of  the  glass  door 
into  the  garden.  It  was  even  as  he  suspected :  the  grass 
of  the  lawn  was  tall  and  matted  and  rank ;  the  bed  that 
had  been  the  famous  "  blaze  of  colour  "  was  but  a 
jungle  of  neglected  herbage.  It  was  clear  beyond  doubt 
that  Aunt  Cathie  had  had  some  pecuniary  loss,  and 
it  was  infinitely  foolish  and  brave  of  her  to  have  kept  it 
to  herself  and  told  neither  Lucia  nor  him.  But  at  that 
another  suspicion  came  into  his  mind,  which  he  felt  he 
must  have  satisfied  at  once.  He  knew  very  well  that  no 
word  of  all  this  had  reached  him.  But  he  had  to  be  told 
that  no  word  of  it  had  reached  Lucia. 

Aunt  Cathie  came  upstairs  again.  The  cake  had  not 
come;  it  was  tiresome  bf  the  tradespeople. 

Edgar  shut  the  door  after  her  and  came  and  sat  down 
beside  her  on  the  sofa  with  its  decoration  of  headrests. 

"  Now,  dear  Aunt  Cathie,"  he  said,  "  you  know  I  am 
not  impertinent  or  inquisitive,  I  hope.  But  I  cannot 
help  seeing  what  all  this  means,  your  parting  with  the 
piano,  the  servants  being  out,  the  neglect  in  the  garden. 
But  why,  why  didn't  you  tell  Lucia  or  me?  I  don't 
think  it  was  kind  of  you." 

There  came  a  sudden  jerk  in  the  muscles  of  Aunt 
Cathie's  throat.  But  she  overcame  it  bravely. 

"  Lucia,  I  am  sure,  was  very  busy,"  she  said,  "  and 
it  was  no  wonder  she  forgot.  I  did  write  to  her,  but  I 
felt  I  couldn't  write  again.  And  I  have  a  servant. 


THE   CLIMBER  441 

Surely  one  old  woman  can  be  looked  after  by  one  serv- 
ant.   Many  people  have  none  at  all. ' ' 

And  then  very  gently,  though  with  a  sickness  of 
heart  at  what  she  had  told  him,  he  got  from  her  the 
story  of  what  had  happened.  Elizabeth  had  urged  her 
to  put  the  bulk  of  their  money  into  some  Russian  oil 
property  that  yielded  a  higher  percentage  than  did 
their  present  investment,  and  three  months  ago,  when 
the  half-yearly  dividend  was  due,  it  had  not  been  paid. 
She  had  received  the  report  of  the  meeting,  and  it  was 
quite  clear  that  this  embarrassment  would  only  be  tem- 
porary, and  that  the  payment  of  dividends  would  soon 
be  resumed.  But  in  the  meantime  it  was  better  to  sell 
the  piano,  and  do  without  a  gardener. 

Aunt  Cathie  could  not  go  on  at  once. 

' '  I  don 't  mind  about  that, ' '  she  said, ' '  and  it  is  very 
wicked  of  one  to  mind  about  anything  else.  But  when 
I  think  of  Lucia  forgetting  all  about  it,  sometimes  I  do 
feel  hurt.  I  don't  mean  to,  I  don't  want  to.  I  know  she 
loves  me,  and  we  all  forget  things  at  times.  I  never 
had  a  good  memory  myself." 

Then  suddenly  she  recovered  her  ancient  spirit,  blew 
her  nose  violently,  and  became  astonishingly  brusque. 

"  Hope  you're  hungry,"  she  said,  "  because  if  I  am 
good  for  anything,  it's  cutting  bread  and  butter.  And 
the  kettle's  boiling.  Now  tell  me  what  you  and  Lucia 
are  going  to  do  with  yourselves.  When  are  you  com- 
ing to  Braytonf  Been  in  London,  haven't  you?  " 

Edgar  did  not  stop  long  after  this,  but  before  going- 
he  extracted  the  extent  of  her  losses  from  Aunt  Cathie, 
and  her  promise  that  Fair  View  should  be  instantly  re- 


442  THE   CLIMBER 

installed  with  a  new  piano  and  its  usual  complement  of 
servants.  A  visit  to  her  bank  was  necessary,  but  after 
that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  do  the  rest  of  the  business 
for  which  he  had  come,  and  went  back  to  Brayton. 

So  Lucia  had  known  all  about  Aunt  Cathie 's  troubles, 
and  had  done  nothing.  It  was  only  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose that  the  letter  had  reached  her  when  she  was  very 
busy,  and  that  she  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  The  point 
was  that  she  had  been  able  to  forget  about  it.  Aunt 
Cathie,  with  a  generosity  of  which  he  was  incapable, 
had  said  that  she  knew  Lucia  loved  her.  But  was  that 
so  ?  Did  Lucia  love  anybody  ? 

And  at  that  question  all  the  flood  of  suspicion  over- 
whelmed him  again.  Somehow  he  must  arrive  at  cer- 
tainty. It  would  not  be  arrived  at  by  asking  Lucia. 


CHAPTER  XVin 

TT  was  Thursday  night — a  night  of  cold,  steadjr 
*  rain.  Edgar  had  dined  alone,  and  given  orders 
that  the  motor  should  come  round  after  dinner  to  take 
him  up  to  town.  The  burden  of  his  suspicions  had  be- 
come intolerable,  and  he  could  no. longer  resist  testing 
them.  Though  sane  reasoning  told  him  that  Lucia  was 
at  Ashdown  with  Mouse,  and  Charlie  was  in  London 
with  Maud,  he  could  no  longer  pay  any  attention  to 
sane  reasoning,  and  he  did  not  believe  these  things. 
Should  his  test  fail,  should  he  find  no  grounds  for  all 
that  he  suspected,  he  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  what 
to  do — namely,  to  confess  to  Lucia  all  that  had  turned 
these  last  weeks  into  hell  for  him,  and  throw  himself  on 
her  generosity,  imploring  her  forgiveness. 

The  test  he  had  devised  was  simple  enough.  He 
meant  to  drive  to  Charlie's  house,  ask  the  servant 
whether  he  was  in,  and  whether  Lucia  had  been  there. 
If  Charlie  was  in,  and  Lucia  had  not  been  there,  that 
would  be  sufficient  for  him;  for  during  these  last  two 
days  all  the  suspicions  which  had  been  vague  and  in- 
definite had  hardened  and  crystallized,  and  he  believed 
that  they  would  be  together.  But  if  Charlie  was  not 
in,  he  meant  to  drive  to  his  own  house  in  Prince 's  Gate, 
and  ask  there  if  Lucia  had  come  up  to  town  or  if 
Charlie  had  been  there.  If  those  questions  were  an- 
swered negatively,  again  his  test  would  have  failed, 
and  he  would  throw  himself  on  Lucia 's  generosity,  con- 

443 


444  THE   CLIMBER 

fessing  all,  even  to  this  last  meanness,  holding  nothing 
whatever  back. 

The  drive  would  not  take  more  than  three  hours,  and 
he  expected  and  had  planned  to  arrive  in  town  about 
midnight.  The  car  was  a  large  one  and  on  the  top  and 
in  the  luggage  box  behind  was  all  that  he  meant  to  take 
abroad  with  him.  Beside  the  chauffeur  sat  his  own 
valet,  and  he  had  the  inside  of  the  car  to  himself.  He 
had  brought  a  book  with  him,  for  the  electric  light  in- 
side made  reading  easy,  but  the  journey  was  half  over 
before  he  remembered  that  he  had  brought  it.  He  no- 
ticed also  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  rain  was 
beating  in  through  the  window  that  he  had  left  open. 
He  closed  that,  but  still  he  did  not  open  his  book.  His 
mind  seemed  to  be  quite  blank,  some  empty  canvas  wait- 
ing for  a  picture  to  be  painted  on  it ;  but  with  that  auto- 
matic perception  that  seems  to  become  so  vivid  when 
anxiety  or  fear  has  deadened  the  large  faculties  into 
blankness,  he  found  that  he  was  getting  very  accurate 
impressions  of  the  details  that  were  presented  to  his 
senses.  The  two  men  in  front  wore  black  mackintoshes ; 
and  it  was  odd  how  the  reflection  of  the  light  from  the 
electric  lamp  seemed  to  be  brighter  on  those  wet,  shiny, 
surfaces  than  was  the  light  itself.  The  car  went  very 
smoothly,  with  a  long-sustained  burr  of  sound,  but  now 
and  then  they  ran  through  a  puddle,  and  he  heard  the 
dash  of  the  water  against  the  splash-board.  Once  or 
twice,  too,  against  the  splash-board  there  came  a  loud 
single  rap,  from  some  stone,  no  doubt,  which  the  wheel 
had  jerked  up.  Then  to  his  nostrils  there  suddenly 
came  the  smell  of  wallflower,  which  puzzled  him.  Then 
he  remembered  that  it  was  a  favourite  scent  of  Lucia 's, 


THE   CLIMBER  445 

and,  looking  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  the  carriage,  he 
found  a  handkerchief  of  hers,  which  smelled  of  it.  His 
hand  closed  on  that ;  it  was  a  tiny  little  square  of  finest 
cambric,  little  more  than  a  monogram  and  a  coronet. 

The  journey  did  not  seem  at  all  long ;  before  he  could 
have  guessed  that  they  were  nearing  its  end  they  had 
entered  the  suburbs,  and  their  pace,  never  excessive, 
slowed  down.  They  went  over  Hammersmith  Bridge, 
and  he  saw  the  row  of  lights  reflected  in  the  tawny 
river,  and,  observing  that  the  rain  had  stopped — for 
the  pane  was  unblurred — he  let  the  window  down  again, 
and  the  cold  night  air,  a  little  tainted  with  the  smell  of 
smoke,  came  in.  The  million  lamps  of  the  town  were 
reflected  in  the  vapours  overhead,  and  to  the  east  it 
looked  as  if  there  must  be  some  fire  broken  out,  so  red 
was  the  glow.  The  rain  could  not  have  ceased  very 
long,  for  the  pavements  were  still  shining  with  it,  and 
the  streets  were  very  empty  of  passengers,  as  if  the 
world  had  despaired  of  fine  weather  that  night  and 
had  gone  to  bed.  Motorbuses,  empty  on  the  top  but 
crammed  to  bursting  inside,  passed  him.  Once  one 
skidded  a  little  just  as  they  were  opposite  it,  and  for 
a  moment  he  thought  there  would  be  a  collision.  They 
were  dangerous  things  on  a  wet  night. 

Then,  before  he  realized  they  had  passed  through 
the  miles  of  streets,  the  motor  drew  up  at  the  house  in 
Warwick  Square,  and  his  valet  came  to  the  door. 

"  I  won't  get  out  till  you  have  inquired,"  said  Ed- 
gar. ' '  Just  ring  and  ask  if  her  ladyship  has  been  here, 
and  if  Mr.  Lindsay  is  in." 

And  still,  even  though  he  knew  that  perhaps  in  one 
moment  from  now  all  his  fears  and  his  suspicions  would 


446  THE   CLIMBER 

cease,  would  drop  into  the  poisoned  well  from  which 
they  came,  his  mind  was  empty  and  void.  But  his  body 
took  cognizance,  and  he  felt  his  heart  hammering  and 
the  pulse  leaping  at  his  wrist  and  in  his  throat.  God ! 
would  the  bell  never  be  answered? 

The  hall,  as  shown  by  the  glass  windows  at  the  side 
of  the  door,  was  dark,  but  suddenly  they  leaped  into 
light,  as  a  servant  inside  came  to  the  door.  His  own 
man  was  standing  with  his  back  to  him ;  after  a  moment 
he  turned  and  came  down  the  steps. 

"  Mr.  Lindsay  is  out,  my  lord,"  he  said.  "  He  was 
dining  out,  and  has  not  come  back  yet.  Her  ladyship 
has  not  been  to  the  house  during  the  last  week." 

"  Thanks.  Drive  to  Prince's  Gate.  When  we  get 

there "  Edgar  was  silent  a  moment,  and  saw  that 

his  own  hand  was  trembling  as  with  an  ague  fit.  But 
still  his  mind  was  blank.  "  When  we  get  there,  I  do 
not  want  you  to  ring.  I  have  my  key,  and  will  let  my- 
self in.  I  want  the  motor  to  stop  two  or  three  doors 
off." 

His  servant  mounted  again;  the  car  backed  a  little 
and  made  a  half  turn,  backed  again,  and  completed  its 
circuit.  At  the  door  of  Charlie's  house  was  still  stand- 
ing the  servant  who  had  answered  the  bell,  and  the 
warm  light  streamed  out  from  behind  him. 

The  drive  up  from  Brayton  had  seemed  short,  but 
this  mile  or  two  to  Prince's  Gate  seemed  interminable. 
Even  here  in  the  heart  of  London  the  ways  were  very 
empty,  the  hansoms  that  jingled  by  were  few;  the 
buses — since  it  was  now  after  midnight — had  ceased; 
and  he  looked  up  long  perspectives  of  nearly  empty 
pavements.  Here  and  there  he  saw  a  man  letting  him- 
self into  his  house,  even  as  he  himself  would  soon  be 


THE   CLIMBER  447 

letting  himself  in,  and  lie  wondered  idly  if  any  were  on 
the  awful  errand  that  was  taking  him  westward.  Then 
they  passed  the  lights  of  the  Grosvenor  Hotel,  and 
again,  with  a  sense  of  irresponsibility  and  remoteness 
from  life,  he  wondered  whether  or  no  he  would  be 
there  the  next  night.  Where  he  was  to  sleep  to-night 
had  not  occurred  to  him. 

The  house  stood  in  the  middle  of  one  of  the  small  sec- 
tions of  Prince's  Gate,  and  the  motor  stopped,  as  he 
had  ordered,  a  couple  of  doors  away. 

With  his  latch-key  already  in  his  hand  he  got  out, 
and  then  suddenly,  to  his  own  astonishment,  for  his 
mind  was  still  aloof,  he  felt  that  his  knees  so  trembled 
that  he  could  scarcely  walk.  But  in  a  moment  he  com- 
manded himself,  and  went  quietly  past  the  two  houses 
that  intervened  to  his  own  porch.  The  windows  were 
all  blank  and  blinded,  but  then  he  saw  something,  a 
very  little  thing,  that  brought  all  his  numbed  faculties 
back  to  him. 

The  fanlight  above  the  hall  door  was  lit. 

For  one  moment  he  paused  there,  and  for  all  the 
chilliness  of  the  night  the  sweat  poured  from  him. 
Agonizedly  he  told  himself  that  the  caretaker  had  for- 
gotten it,  that  when  he  put  his  latch-key  into  its  hole 
he  would  find  the  door  bolted  and  locked.  Then,  with  a 
hand  that  no  longer  trembled,  he  put  the  key  in,  turned 
it,  and  the  door  opened. 

The  hall  was  lit:  on  a  chair  lay  a  man's  coat  and  an 
opera  hat.  The  latter  had  not  been  folded  up,  and 
on  the  black  silk  of  the  crown,  above  the  maker's 
name,  he  saw  two  initials  in  gilt,  which  caught  the 
light. 


448  THE   CLIMBER 

There  was  no  more  thinking  to  be  done.  He  had  con- 
templated this — just  this — so  often,  that  his  actions 
were  automatic.  He  had  not  yet  closed  the  door,  and 
he  went  outside  and  beckoned. 

His  valet  jumped  down  and  came  to  him. 

"  Tell  him  to  bring  the  car  opposite  the  door,"  he 
said,  ' '  and  then  stop  the  engines.  I  want  you  both  to 
sit  in  your  places  and  take  notice  of  what  happens. 
You  will  not  have  to  do  anything;  you  will  just  keep 
your  eyes  on  the  door,  and  see  who  comes  out." 

He  waited  on  the  doorstep  till  the  car  had  slid  up  op- 
posite, and  then  went  into  the  house  again,  closing  the 
door  gently  behind  him. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  when  he  saw  the  fan-light, 
that  his  mind  had  worked,  and  now  again,  as  before,  it 
was  blank.  On  the  left  of  the  hall  was  the  door  of  the 
dining-room,  open,  and  he  went  in.  The  room  was  in 
darkness,  but  by  the  light  that  came  in  from  the  open 
door  he  could  see  that  a  cloth  was  laid  over  a  corner  of 
the  big  table.  He  took  a  chair  on  the  far  side  of  the 
room  out  of  the  light,  but  opposite  the  open  door,  and 
waited. 

Whether  time  passed  quickly  or  slowly  now  he  did 
not  know.  He  did  not  know,  either,  in  what  form  the 
future  would  come,  or  what  he  would  do.  He  had  fore- 
cast his  arrival  here  just  as  it  had  happened,  but  his 
prevision  had  gone  no  further  than  that.  There  was  no 
anger  in  his  heart,  there  was  perhaps  a  little  hate,  but 
that  was  immeasurable,  at  the  time,  with  that  which 
filled  it — his  dead  love.  Whatever  he  would  do  this 
night,  he  felt  sure  that  he  would  do  nothing  violent, 
nothing  passionate.  All  possibility  of  passion  or  vio- 


THE   CLIMBER  449 

lence  was  crushed  beneath  the  huge  dead  weight  that 
filled  his  mind  and  his  soul.  And  then  once  more  the 
odour  of  wall-flowers  came  to  him,  and  he  found  that  he 
had  still  in  his  hand  that  little  scented  square  of  cam- 
bric. With  a  sudden  qualm  as  of  physical  sickness  he 
threw  it  into  the  grate,  where  a  few  coals  still  smoul- 
dered. 

The  house  was  absolutely  still;  it  was  as  if  silence 
covered  the  whole  world.  No  sound  of  passing  traffic 
came  to  him,  no  tattoo  of  pedestrian  heels  on  the  pave- 
ments, no  clink  from  the  dying  fire.  Then,  after  ages, 
or  after  a  few  seconds  only,  for  time  had  ceased  to  be 
computable,  a  sound  came.  Somewhere  upstairs  a 
door  opened.  That  was  followed  by  the  noise  of  its 
shutting,  and  then  there  came  steps  on  the  stairs.  They 
came  down  one  flight;  they  passed  along  the  landing 
of  the  drawing-room ;  they  came  down  the  second  flight 
that  led  into  the  hall.  Then  Charlie's  figure  came  into 
sight,  and,  standing  opposite  the  open  door  into  the 
dining-room,  he  put  on  his  coat  and  took  his  hat.  Then 
he  passed  out  of  sight,  but  the  noise  of  the  opening  and 
closing  of  the  front  door  told  Edgar  that  he  had  gone 
into  the  street,  where,  just  opposite  the  house,  the 
motor  was  waiting.  Then  he  got  up  and  went  himself 
into  the  hall.  Charlie  had  turned  the  light  out,  but  the 
fan-light  above  the  door  still  burned,  and  it  was  easily 
possible  to  see. 

Then  the  silence  was  broken  again ;  the  bell  sounded, 
and  then  the  knocker  on  the  front  door,  gently  at  first, 
but  with  growing  vehemence,  as  if  panic  had  seized  the 
man  who  was  knocking,  and  the  whole  house  resounded 
to  it.  He  had  not  foreseen  that  Charlie  would  recog- 


450  THE   CLIMBER 

nize  the  motor,  or  the  chauffeur,  but  it  did  not  matter — 
nothing  mattered.  But  Edgar  just  slipped  the  bolt  at 
the  bottom  and  top  of  the  door,  then  he  lit  the  hall  light 
again,  and  went  upstairs. 

The  house  above  was  dark,  and  as  he  went  he  turned 
on  the  passage  lights.  But  even  before  he  had  reached 
the  first  landing  lights  were  turned  on  above  him,  and 
Lucia,  barefooted  and  in  a  dressing-gown,  came  run- 
ning down.  It  was  no  wonder  she  had  heard  the  knock- 
ing; it  was  sufficient  to  wake  the  dead.  And  just  as 
she  reached  the  landing  by  the  drawing-room  she  saw 
him. 

For  some  half-minute  neither  spoke.  In  Edgar's 
mind  there  was  still  no  anger,  only  the  intolerable 
weight  of  his  dead  love.  Then  he  spoke,  raising  his 
voice  a  little,  so  that  she  might  hear  it  above  the  noise 
of  that  tempest  of  blows  outside. 

"  The  motor  is  at  the  door,"  he  said,  "  and  it  shall 
drive  you  away  to  some  hotel.  Go  and  dress  yourself. 
I  will  wait  here  for  you,  and  take  your  luggage  down. 
Ah,  here  is  Hopkins." 

The  caretaker,  half-dressed,  appeared  at  this  mo- 
ment, roused  from  sleep  by  the  noise  that  still  con- 
tinued. 

1 '  Please  wait  and  take  her  ladyship 's  luggage  to  the 
motor,  Hopkins,"  he  said.  "  It  will  be  ready  as  soon 
as  possible." 

Lucia  had  not  moved  since  the  moment  she  saw  her 
husband.  But  then,  with  a  passionate  gesticulation,  she 
came  a  step  or  two  toward  him. 

"  Edgar,  I  swear  to  you "  she  began. 

He  just  held  up  his  hand. 


THE   CLIMBER  451 

11  Ah,  quite  so,"  he  said.    "  It  is  wasted  on  me." 

11  But  I  implore  you " 

"  That  is  wasted  on  me  also.  Go  upstairs,  and  be 
quick. ' ' 

He  turned,  went  downstairs  again,  and  crossed  the 
hall  to  the  door.  He  undid  the  bolts  he  had  just 
fastened,  and  opened  it,  and  found  Charlie,  white-faced, 
frantic. 

'  *  It  will  do  you  no  good  to  make  that  noise, ' '  he  said. 
"  You  had  better  go  home." 

Charlie  stammered  a  few  incoherent  words  before  he 
could  make  his  tongue  do  his  bidding. 

* '  But  I  can 't  leave  her  like  this !  "  he  cried. 

Then,  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Edgar's  dead  love,  in 
the  presence  of  the  man  who  had  helped  to  murder  it, 
cried  from  the  earth.  But  even  now  he  did  not  lose 
control  of  himself;  he  but  just  knew  that  his  control 
was  weakening. 

11  You  will  be  wise  to  go,  you  damned  hound!  "  he 
said.  "  I  am  flesh  and  blood  also.  You  need  not  be 
afraid  for  her.  She  will  leave  the  house  in  a  few 
minutes.  Are  you  so  stupid  as  to  suppose  I  could  touch 
her?  But  I  might  touch  you.  You  might  spare  me 
that!  Go." 


Then  he  crossed  the  pavement. 

"  You  will  drive  her  ladyship  to  any  hotel  she 
wishes,"  he  said  to  the  chauffeur,  "  and  come  for 
orders  in  the  morning.  I  shall  not  want  you  again  to- 
night. Flynn,  you  will  go  and  see  her  ladyship  safe, 
and  then  come  back  here.  You  can  let  yourself  in  with 
my  latch-key." 

Edgar  went  back  into  the  hall.    Before  long  the  care- 


452  THE   CLIMBER 

taker  came  downstairs  with  a  couple  of  bags.  He  went 
out  and  put  them  in  the  car. 

"  You  can  go  to  bed,"  said  Edgar. 

But  still  Lucia  did  not  come,  and  after  a  little 
while  he  went  up  to  her  room.  She  was  standing  there 
with  her  furs  and  her  hat  on,  quite  still  in  the  centre  of 
the  room.  All  the  lights  were  lit,  and  they  showed  the 
absolute  whiteness  of  her  face,  and  its  incomparable 
beauty. 

"  It  is  time  for  you  to  go, ' '  he  said,  holding  the  door 
wide.  *  *  You  are  keeping  the  men  up. ' ' 

But  still  she  did  not  move.  She  raised  her  face  a 
little,  looking  steadily  at  him,  and  with  short,  jerky 
movements  she  raised  her  hands  also  towards  him. 
And  then,  without  warning,  his  self-control  gave  way. 

"  Go,  go — you  harlot!  "  he  screamed,  "  or  I  shall 
kill  you." 

Once,  long  ago,  his  love  had  frightened  her;  it  was 
his  hate  that  frightened  her  now.  And  next  moment 
she  was  alone  in  the  empty  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

morning,  just  six  days  later,  Lucia  was  alone 
in  the  sitting-room  of  the  little  suite  that  Edgar 
had  taken  for  her  and  himself  at  the  Grosvenor  Hotel 
for  the  night  before  they  had  planned  to  leave  England 
on  the  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean.  She  had  driven 
there  in  his  motor  from  the  Prince's  Gate  house,  and 
had  scarcely  set  foot  outside  it  since.  But  many  dif- 
ferent people  had  come  to  see  her  here,  and  this  morn- 
ing she  was  expecting  Maud,  who  had  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  come  to  her.  But  the  day  outside  was  a  cur- 
tain of  the  densest  fog;  it  was  probable  that  Maud 
might  find  it  impossible  to  get  here  at  all.  And  whether 
her  coming  or  her  keeping  away  was  the  least  faceable 
Lucia  hardly  knew.  To  some  people  suspense  is  worse 
than  the  worse  certainty;  to  others,  those  who  would 
put  off  an  unpleasant  scene  from  day  to  day,  suspense 
is  the  more  bearable.  All  that  Lucia  knew  was  that  the 
suspense  she  was  in  now  was  more  dreadful  than  had 
been  the  moment  when,  a  week  ago,  the  frenzied  knock- 
ing began,  and  she  came  downstairs  to  find  Edgar.  But 
— yes,  suspense  was  the  more  bearable  than  the  thought 
of  what  message  Maud  might  bring.  She  would  have 
made  this  great  pall  of  darkness  that  overhung  the  town 
of  double  intensity ;  she  would  have  willed  that  it  should 
continue  for  ever — anything  to  delay  Maud's  arrival. 

All  the  days  of  this  last  week,  though  they  had  been 
passed  without  change  of  surroundings,  were  abso- 
lutely distinct  to  her.  That  was  due  perhaps  to  the 

453 


454  THE   CLIMBER 

fact  that  very  few  things  had  happened,  but  that  each 
was  invested  with  an  appalling  significance.  It  was  on 
Thursday  night  that  she  had  come  here,  that  Edgar's 
valet  had  brought  up  her  bag  for  her  to  her  room,  and 
had  undone  the  straps  of  it  and  left  her.  That  night 
she  had  not  gone  to  bed  at  all,  and,  in  spite  of  the  hide- 
ous shock  and  the  scene  that  she  had  been  through,  she 
sat  alert  and  tingling.  It  had  happened;  the  worst 
possible  had  happened,  and  it  was  over.  But  life  was 
not  in  the  least  over;  it  had  but  begun;  she  had  but 
tasted  it,  and  she  was  hungry.  True,  there  was  anxiety 
and  suspense;  what  had  happened  to  Charlie  she  had 
no  idea,  but  certainly  he  had  been  right  to  go  away. 
Probably  he  had  gone  home;  probably  he,  too,  was 
waiting  till  the  night  should  be  over,  and  she  could  let 
him  know  where  she  was.  And  next  morning,  as  soon 
as  the  hotel  began  to  stir,  she  sent  a  note  to  him,  just 
saying  that  she  was  at  the  Grosvenor.  But  the  slow 
hours  of  Friday  morning  passed,  and  he  did  not  come. 

But  there  were  other  things  that  had  to  be  done. 
Very  possibly  he  had  not  gone  home ;  a  hundred  other 
alternatives  would  account  for  his  failing  to  answer, 
and  meantime  the  hours  were  passing.  She  must  at 
once  get  legal  advice ;  tell  the  story  which  she  had  yet 
to  plan  and  adjust  and  varnish  to  a  solicitor,  and  send 
to  Charlie  the  account  of  what  she  had  invented.  Her 
invention  had  never  failed  her  yet ;  it  would  be  strange 
if  now,  when  she  stood  in  her  most  urgent  need,  she 
could  not  construe  something  that  held  water.  She 
must  think ;  she  must  think  furiously. 

What  had  happened?  She  had  come  up  to  town  a 
day  earlier  than  she  had  originally  intended,  to  do 
some  shopping.  Charlie  had  dined  with  her  that  even- 


THE   CLIMBER  455 

ing  in  Prince's  Gate;  it  was  no  use  denying  that.  He 
had  stopped  talking  to  her  till  twelve  or  a  little  later, 
and  then,  as  soon  as  ever  he  went  downstairs  to  go 
away,  she  had  gone  up  to  bed,  and  had  more  than  half 
undressed  when  she  heard  knocking  on  the  front  door. 
She  had  told  the  caretaker  that  neither  he  nor  his 
wife  need  sit  up,  and  not  knowing  what  this  knocking 
was  had  come  downstairs  to  see.  On  the  stairs  she  had 
met  her  husband ;  he  had  given  her  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
to  get  out  of  the  house.  His  motor  was  outside,  and  she 
drove  straight  to  the  hotel. 

For  all  her  quickness  of  thought,  it  took  her  some 
hour  or  two  to  get  this  short  and  simple  account  into 
shape,  but  no  sooner  was  it  done  than  she  wrote  it  out, 
and  sent  it  by  hand  to  Charlie 's  club.  And  now  she  ap- 
plauded his  prudence  in  not  having  come  in  answer  to 
her  first  note;  it  was  much  better  so. 

There  was  a  telephone  in  her  room,  and  she  then  com- 
municated with  a  firm  of  well-known  solicitors,  request- 
ing the  immediate  presence  of  the  head  of  it,  on  a  mat- 
ter of  great  importance.  She  had  often  met  the  man 
before ;  he  had  been  to  their  house  more  than  once,  and 
she  had  liked  the  clever,  sharp-witted  Mr.  Shapstone. 
She  felt  sure  he  would  come  to  her  at  his  earliest  pos- 
sible leisure.  And  before  half  a  minute  had  passed,  her 
bell  rang,  and  she  listened. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  Lady  Brayton.  What 
is  it!  " 

The  next  moment  she  had  put  the  receiver  back  into 
its  place,  and  she  turned  white  to  the  lips.  Shapstone 
and  Sons  had  already  been  engaged  by  Lord  Brayton 
to  instruct  his  counsel  in  his  divorce  suit.  It  was  there- 
fore impossible 


456  THE   CLIMBER 

And  then  she  had  put  back  the  receiver.  So  she  was 
really  in  the  middle  of  the  breakers  which  had  wrecked 
so  many  gaudy  pleasure-boats. 

But  it  was.  not  long  before  her  splendid  vitality 
rallied  again.  There  was  another  firm  who,  she  thought 
she  remembered,  had  once  done  something  for  Madge. 
So  at  least  a  story  ran;  they  had  averted  danger  in 
some  very  clever  way.  And  before  the  early  November 
dusk  had  closed  down  on  that  Friday  afternoon  she 
found  herself  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Baxter,  and, 
soon  after,  telling  him  the  story  which  had  seemed  so 
simple  and  straightforward.  He  was  as  unlike  as  pos- 
sible to  what  Lucia  had  imagined.  There  was  nothing 
ferrety  or  fox-faced  about  him;  he  was  genial  and 
broad-shouldered,  of  pink  complexion,  and  rather  like  a 
prosperous  country  parson.  He  heard  her  in  dead  si- 
lence. 

"  I  understand,  then,  that  his  lordship  was  in  the 
house  when  Mr.  Lindsay  left  it,"  he  said,  "  and  that 
he  met  you  on  the  stairs  some  time  after  twelve,  and 
very  soon  after  Mr.  Lindsay  had  gone  down.  You  had 
gone  up  to  bed,  I  think  you  said,  and  came  down  in — 
in  deshabille,  That  is  so?  " 

"  Yes;  I  have  told  you,"  said  Lucia. 

"  And  do  you  suppose  that  anybody  saw  Mr.  Lindsay 
leave  the  house?  "  he  asked.  "  If  not,  why  do  you 
think  he  knocked  violently — I  think  you  said?  " 

"  There  was  my  husband's  motor  outside,"  said  she. 
"  It  is  probable  that  he  recognized  it.  He  may  have 
spoken  to  the  chauffeur." 

Another  question. 

"  Did  you  give  any  reason  to  the  Duchess  of  Wilt- 


THE   CLIMBER  457 

shire  for  leaving  her  house  a  day  sooner  than  you  had 
planned  to?  " 

Lucia  got  up. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I — I  told  her  we  were  going 
abroad  a  day  sooner  than  we  had  planned." 

Mr.  Baxter  neatly  extinguished  the  end  of  his  cig- 
arette. 

* '  And  that  was  the  case !  "  he  said. 

Lucia  did  not  at  once  reply,  and  he  spoke  again. 

"  You  had  much  better  tell  me,"  he  said.  "  It  is  my 
business  to  make  any — any  weak  points  stronger." 

"  No,  it  was  not  the  case,"  said  Lucia. 

* '  Ah ;  a  pity.  Of  course,  as  you  say,  the  Duchess  is 
your  friend.  But  nobody  knows  what  cross-examina- 
tion is  until  he  has  been  subjected  to  it.  Now  have  you 
anything  else  to  tell  me?  ' 

"  I  think  I  have  told  you  all,"  said  Lucia. 

Mr.  Baxter  opened  his  mouth  a  little  and  stared  at 
the  fire.  Once  or  twice  he  asked  her  a  question,  but 
continued  staring,  as  if  her  answers  did  not  mean  much. 

At  length  he  spoke. 

"  I  do  not  see  the  faintest  chance  of  a  successful  de- 
fence," he  said.  "  If  you  wish,  I  will  do  my  best.  I 
am  very  sorry,  but  my  advice  to  you  is  that  you  do  not 
defend  the  suit. ' ' 

That  was  Friday.  In  the  evening  her  maid  came 
from  Ashdown,  with  piles  of  luggage.  It  was  bestowed 
in  the  little  anteroom  of  the  suite;  the  maid  occupied 
the  bedroom  that  should  have  been  Edgar's. 

After  her  sleepless  night  Lucia  went  early  to  bed, 
slept  soundly  and  dreamlessly.  When  she  woke,  after 
a  moment  of  the  sense  of  being  lost,  of  not  knowing 


458  THE   CLIMBER 

where  she  was,  she  woke  to  a  sense  of  tremendous  vi- 
tality. She  recalled  at  once  and  vividly  the  interview 
of  the  day  before,  and,  so  far  from  going  back  into  the 
past,  projected  herself  into  the  future.  It  was  infinitely 
better  to  have  done  with  the  false  and  double  life,  even 
though  that  implied  the  giving  up  of  all  that  had 
formed  the  subject  of  her  ambitions.  But  into  these 
ambitions,  love,  the  one  thing  worth  having,  had  never 
come.  The  ambition,  the  success  and  achievement,  had 
been  hers ;  she  had  climbed  to  the  very  top  of  the  high- 
est trees,  and  seen  all  the  other  tree-tops  waving  below 
her.  Then  she  had  sprung  upwards  again  to  the  sun  it- 
self, and  though  that  leap  had  caused  her  to  lose  her 
footing,  in  the  moment  of  falling  through  the  sunny 
air  she  did  not  regret  it.  The  last  two  or  three  months 
had  given  her  more  happiness  than  all  the  yield  of  the 
fat  years ;  they,  those  few  months,  had  given  all  that  the 
fat  years  lacked,  of  which  the  absence  made  them  seem 
so  lean.  Besides,  she  could  hardly  yet  believe  that  she 
had  lost  all;  she  was  a  woman  of  a  million  friends — 
surely  her  friends  would  be  friends  still.  Whatever 
the  Divorce  Court  might  decree,  she  would  be  silent, 
as  Mr.  Baxter  had  counselled,  disdaining  to  reply.  It 
was  quite  true ;  her  story,  which  had  seemed  so  smooth 
and  pat,  was  only  a  tale  fit  to  tell  to  children.  How  she 
herself  would  have  smiled,  if  Madge  had  come  to  her 
with  a  history  of  the  kind,  expecting  to  be  believed. 
And  then,  no  doubt,  Charlie  would  soon  be  free,  even  as 
she  would.  Yet,  she  had  not  thought  of  this  before. 
What  interpretation  would  be  put  on  her  proud  silence, 
her  disdaining  to  reply,  if  she  married  him? 

And  if  they  did  not  marry?    But  that  she  could  not 
bear  to  contemplate.    It  was  a  thing  unthinkable. 


THE   CLIMBER  459 

But  on  the  intrusion  of  the  unthinkable  thought,  the 
utter  loneliness  and  desolation  of  her  present  position 
struck  Lucia  like  a  blow.  Yet  that  after  all  was  en- 
tirely her  own  fault,  for  how  should  anybody  know 
what  had  happened,  and  how  should  anybody  know 
where  she  was !  This  morning,  according  to  her  plans, 
no — yesterday  morning,  according  to  the  plans  she  had 
spoken  of  to  Mouse — she  was  supposed  to  leave  town  to 
go  South.  Of  course,  everybody  thought  she  had  done 
so.  It  was  just  eleven  now;  at  this  moment  probably 
the  train  by  which  they  were  to  have  travelled  was 
hooting  the  news  of  its  departure.  She  wondered  what 
Edgar  had  done.  It  would  be  exactly  like  his  precision 
to  go  abroad  according  to  the  arrangements  that  had 
been  made,  and  photograph  the  whole  coastline  of  the 
Riviera.  Well,  she  had  done  with  that. 

During  that  day  she  telephoned  to  Madge,  intimating 
a  catastrophe,  and  asking  her  to  come.  The  answer 
came  back  that  she  was  out  of  town,  but  was  returning 
next  day,  and  the  message  would  be  delivered.  And  all 
that  day  she  sat  alone;  she  dared  not  go  out,  for  fear 
Charlie  might  come  in  her  absence.  Also,  where  was 
she  to  go? 

Through  those  long  lonely  hours,  and  through  the 
hours  of  Sunday,  the  knowledge  of  what  had  happened 
began  to  sink  deeper  into  her  mind,  and  she  found  now 
that  though  two  days  ago  she  had  said  to  herself  that 
the  worst  had  happened,  the  worst  had  but  begun.  At 
first  there  had  been  something  even  bracing  about  the 
shock;  she  was  done  for  ever,  even  if  the  worst  came 
to  the  worst,  with  the  man  she  had  grown  to  hate.  Or, 
again,  there  was  the  chance  that  a  lawyer  might  make 


460  THE   CLIMBER 

something  out  of  her  feeble  little-child-story  of  how  the 
evening  had  been  passed.  That  hope  was  gone  now, 
and  though  the  man  she  hated  was  gone,  too,  she  only 
now  began  to  see  what  an  immense  part  of  her  life  he 
had  taken  with  him.  She  was  now  no  more  than  she 
had  been  in  those  dreadful,  incredible  days  at  Brixham, 
except  only  that  she  carried  now  a  load  of  infamy  and 
disgrace. 

Yet  that  could  not  be.  There  was  Charlie;  why  did 
he  not  come  to  her? 

Dusk  had  fallen  before  anyone  came;  soon  after 
Lucia  sprang  up  to  greet  Madge. 

"  Oh,  Madge,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  been  all  alone — all,  all  alone.  I  want  to  tell  you 
about  it.  What  are  they  saying!  Tell  me  what  people 
are  saying.  Does  anybody  know  yet  what  has  hap- 
pened? " 

Lady  Heron  looked  and  was  genuinely  distressed. 

11  My  dear  Lucia,"  she  said,  "  how  could  you?  Well, 
well,  it  is  no  use  asking  that.  The  thing  is  done.  Yes, 
everybody  knows.  They  are  talking  of  nothing  else. 
You  know  the  world  well  enough  to  know  that. ' ' 

"  But  my  friends,"  cried  Lucia,  "  are  they  joining 
in  it,  do  you  mean?  Are  there  not  any  who  refuse  to 
listen  to  such  dreadful  lies  about  me?  I  will  tell  you 
the  whole  story " 

But  Madge  stopped  her. 

"  Believe  me,  that  is  a  mere  waste  of  time,"  she  said 
quietly.  "  We  have  to  consider  the  situation  as  it  is." 

"  But  nobody  knows  except  Charlie  and  me,  and  he 
knows  as  well  as  I  do " 

And  then  Lucia  stopped.  She  saw  the  futility  of  it 
all.  She  knew  the  uselessness  of  her  little  child-tale. 


THE   CLIMBER  461 

"  Who  has  told  them?  "  she  asked. 

1 '  Edgar,  I  should  think ;  he  probably  told  somebody, 
and  after  that —  on  the  whole  it  was  best  that  he  should. 
It  is  more  dreadful  if  the  first  thing  that  the  world 
knows  is  that  the  proceedings  have  begun.  Now  what 
are  you  thinking  of  doing!  Have  you  seen  Charlie  yet ! 
Does  he  know  where  you  are  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  he  knows  where  I  am,"  said  Lucia.  "  I  wrote 
at  least  to  his  house  and  his  club  telling  him." 

"  And  he  has  not  been?  " 

11  No." 

The  unthinkable  thought  showed  itself  again.  Lucia 
sprang  up. 

"  Your  silence  frightens  me,  Madge,"  she  said. 
"  What  are  you  thinking  of?  Do  you  mean  he  is  going 
to  desert  me  after  leading  me  into  this  ?  It  was  he  all 
along " 

Madge  gave  a  long,  painful  sigh. 

"  Oh  Lucia,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  love  anybody? 
Not  even  him?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Lucia.  "  Isn't  it  just 
because  I  love  him  that  I  am  so  miserable?  I  don't 
understand  you." 

Madge  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  I  can't  explain,"  she  said.  "  Now,  my  dear, 
let  us  leave  alone  all  that  is  irremediable  and  see  what 
is  left.  You  will  not  stop  in  London,  I  imagine.  Have 
you  not  some  friends  or  relations  in  the  country  to 
whom  you  could  go?  And  I  suppose  you  will  not  de- 
fend the  case?  " 

But  Lucia  shook  her  head. 

"About  Charlie,"  she  said;  "  nothing  matters  but 
that.  Oh,  Madge,  do  you  think " 


462  .      THE   CLIMBER 

And  then  for  the  first  time  since  the  crash  the  tears 
came.  Slow  and  difficult  at  first,  but  soon  growing 
wild  and  tempestuous.  It  was  long  before  she  in  the 
least  recovered  herself,  and  by  this  time  it  was  late. 

"  Now  you  are  more  yourself,  dear,  I  must  go,"  said 
Madge.  "  If  you  want  to  see  me  again,  send  me  word, 
and  I  will  come  if  I  can." 

She  would  come  if  she  could !  She  would  come  if  she 
could !  After  she  had  left  those  words  occurred  again 
and  again  to  Lucia,  and  the  meaning  of  them  dawned 
on  her.  It  was  clear  enough  after  a  while ;  she  would 
come  if  she  could  do  so  secretly.  She  was  sure  it  was 
that  which  she  meant. 

The  next  day  she  received  a  note  from  Messrs.  Shap- 
stone  asking  her  the  name  and  address  of  her  solicitor. 
In  case — so  ran  the  communication — she  did  not  pro- 
pose to  employ  a  solicitor  in  the  divorce  proceedings 
which  were  instituted  against  her  Mr.  W.  M.  Shap- 
stone,  who  was  himself  waiting  below,  would  request  a 
few  minutes'  conversation  with  her. 

Lucia  sent  down  to  say  she  would  see  him;  the  last 
time  she  saw  him,  she  remembered,  he  was  her  guest 
down  at  Brayton  for  a  Saturday  till  Monday. 

He  was  announced,  and  bowed  slightly  to  her. 
Somehow  that  cut  Lucia  like  a  whip. 

11  Please  sit  down  and  state  your  business  as  shortly 
as  possible,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Shapstone  spoke  to  the  wall  apparently,  and  not 
to  her. 

"  Lord  Brayton  wishes  me  to  tell  you,"  he  said, 
"  that  if  you  do  not  defend  these  proceedings  for  di- 
vorce, he  will  continue  your  allowance.  If  you  defend 
them,  he  will  not." 


THE   CLIMBER  463 

"  That  is,  he  bribes  me  not  to  put  in  a  defence,'* 
said  Lucia. 

"  You  are  at  liberty  to  put  it  any  way  you  choose," 
said  Mr.  Shapstone. 

That  was  the  first  real  touch  of  shame,  of  humilia- 
tion, that  Lucia  had  felt.  It  was  intolerable  that  this 
man,  who  had  been  her  guest,  who  was  one  of  the 
crowd  whom  she  had  chosen  to  honour,  should  inflict 
this  on  her.  And  she  had  to  answer  him.  He,  too, 
would  put  his  own  interpretation  on  the  "  disdainful 
silence." 

11  I  am  not  proposing  to  defend  the  case,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Shapstone  rose  at  once. 

"  Thank  you,  that  is  all,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps,  if 
you  would  give  me  the  shortest  possible  statement  of 
that  on  paper,  it  would  be  satisfactory  to  my  client. 
Pray  send  it  at  your  leisure." 

The  next  day  passed  without  external  incident. 
Lucia  wrote  the  short  statement,  sent  it  by  hand,  and 
received  a  formal  receipt.  All  these  days  she  had  re- 
ceived no  letters ;  probably  they  had  all  been  forwarded 
to  the  yacht  at  Marseilles,  for  Edgar  always  made  the 
most  careful  schedule  of  the  destinations  to  which  they 
should  be  sent.  But  on  Wednesday  morning  there  was 
brought  up  to  her  with  her  early  tea  a  letter  in  a  hand 
she  knew  well.  It  was  from  Maud. 

"  Lucia,  I  think  I  had  better  see  you.  There  are 
things  that  must  be  said  or  written  from  me  to  you,  and 
I  don't  think  I  could  write  them.  I  should  not  propose 
an  interview  which  must  prove  so  painful  if  it  were 
not  that  I  think  it  necessary.  I  could  come  any  time 
to-morrow  that  you  may  appoint.  I  will  not  write  more 


464  THE   CLIMB  EE 

now  except  just  to  say  that  my  heart  bleeds  and  aches 
for  you.    Oh,  Lucia,  Lucia,  what  misery— 

And  then  apparently  Maud's  pen  could  do  no  more, 
and  she  had  left  it  unsigned. 

'Lucia  had  appointed  eleven  the  following  morning, 
but  long  before  that  hour  she  was  pacing  up  and  down 
hei  room  in  a  suspense  that  was  becoming  unbearable. 
She  felt  sure  that  Charlie  had  seen  his  wife,  and  yet 
Charlie  had  not  seen  her.  She  felt  something  had  been 
arranged,  and  that  Maud  was  going  to  tell  her  of  it, 
that  Charlie  acquiesced  in  this  arrangement  whatever 
it  was.  But  what  in  God's  name  could  it  be,  that  kept 
Charlie  away  from  her,  and  yet  made  it  necessary  for 
Maud  to  see  her? 

Then,  not  so  long  after  eleven,  in  spite  of  the  fog, 
her  maid  came  and  said  that  Mrs.  Lindsay  was  outside. 
And  at  the  thought  of  Maud,  who  should  presently 
come  in,  Maud  who  from  the  earliest  days  had  been  so 
true  to  her,  so  singly  generous,  shame,  not  of  exposure, 
humiliation,  but  not  because  she  was  found  out,  at  last 
must  have  touched  Lucia  a  little,  for  hearing  the  step 
outside,  she  was  not  able  to  face  her,  but  flung  herself 
down  on  her  sofa,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands.  She 
heard  the  door  open  and  shut,  but  still  she  could  not 
look  up;  she  felt  Maud's  presence  near  her,  and  pres- 
ently on  her  shoulder  she  felt  Maud's  hand. 

11  Lucia,  dear  Lucia,"  she  said,  "  I  have  come." 

At  that  quiet,  kind  voice  once  more  Lucia  wept.  But 
she  wept  tears  that  had  a  little  more  than  self-pity  in 
them. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  bear  it,"  she  sobbed;  "  you  had 
better  go,  I  think.  I  didn't  know  it  would  be  like  this." 


THE   CLIMBER  465 

11  But  I  have  come  to  bear  it  with  you,"  said  Maud. 
"  We  have  both  got  something  to  bear,  and  what  you 
have  to  bear  is  so  far  worse." 

Lucia  got  quieter  after  a  while,  and  raised  her  tear- 
stained  face  and  looked  at  Maud  for  the  first  time. 

' '  But  what  has  happened  to  you !  ' '  she  said.  '  *  You 
look  so  white,  so  ill.  You  ought  not  to  have  come. ' ' 

' '  I  couldn  't  not  come, ' '  said  she.  ' '  As  soon  as  I  was 
able  to  come,  I  had  to  see  you.  But  I  was  not  able  to 
come  before ;  it  would  have  done  no  good.  But  all  that 
is  over,  I  think — I  pray  God  it  is." 

"  All  what?  "  asked  Lucia. 

"  My  anger,  my — my  hatred  of  you,"  said  Maud 
quietly. 

There  was  no  use  in  doubting  the  simple  sincerity  of 
that.  Bravely  Maud  tried  to  smile,  but  that  was  not 
quite  in  her  power,  for  her  mouth  so  trembled,  and  both 
sat  silent  again.  Then  Maud  spoke. 

"  You  want  to  know  all  that  has  happened,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  will  tell  you.  You  must  give  me  time,  though, 
for  though  there  is  not  much  to  say,  it  is  difficult." 

Again  she  paused. 

"  I  have  seen  Charlie,  of  course,"  she  said,  "  and  he 
has  told  me  everything.  It  was  all  his  fault,  he  said, 
throughout.  He  told  me  how  all  along  he  made  love  to 
you,  how — how  before  the  end  he  fought  and  laughed  at 
your  scruples.  He  is  sorry,  he  wished  me  to  tell  you, 
for  all  the  wrong  he  has  done  to  you  and  to  me." 

Again  Maud  paused. 

1 1  I  sent  for  him ;  I  said  I  must  see  him.  I  could  not 
speak  to  a  solicitor  about  what  had  happened  or  what 
was  going  to  happen.  And  we  have  come  to  this  ar- 
rangement. He  is  to  go  away  altogether,  for  six 


466  THE   CLIMBER 

months;  he  has  gone,  in  fact.  He  is  to  communicate 
neither  with  you  nor  me.  At  the  end  of  six  months  he 
will  come  back,  and — and  do  what  he  wishes.  At  least, 
as  far  as  my  part  goes  he  will.  If  he  wishes  to — to  go 
to  you,  I  will  make  that  possible.  And  if  he  decides  to 
come  back  to  me,  I  shall  take  him  back.  Of  course,  he 
did  not  go  until  he  knew  that  you  did  not  intend  to  de- 
fend yourself." 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause ;  this  time  Lucia  broke 
it. 

"  It  was  I  who  who  tempted  him,  and  led  him  on," 
she  said.  "  I — I.  He  resisted  at  first;  oh,  for  a  long 
time  he  resisted,  but  I  was  the  stronger.  You  had  bet- 
ter know  that,  so  that  if  he  comes  back  to  you,  it  will 
make  things  easier.  And  he  will  come  back  to  you," 
she  said.  ' '  In  his  heart  I  believe  he  hated  himself  for 
yielding;  but,  I  am  beautiful." 

Then  at  the  thought  of  all  she  had  lost,  and  of  the 
absolute  and  utter  blankness  and  loneliness  that 
stretched  in  front  of  her,  all  the  worst  of  her  nature 
sprang  to  the  surface,  usurping  the  place  of  the  best. 
She  laughed  suddenly  and  harshly. 

"  Take  my  leavings,"  she  said.  "  Try  and  make 
them  up  into  something  that  is  more  like  a  man.  I  was 
just  his  mistress,  it  appears,  to  be  discarded  at  his 
pleasure." 

And  then  she  stopped,  for  she  saw  Maud's  face  of 
agonized  despair,  saw,  too,  the  gesture  of  her  hand,  as 
if  she  would  keep  Lucia  off.  And  Lucia  again  remem- 
bered all  that  Maud  had  been,  all  that  she  was,  and 
out  of  the  nethermost  hell  of  her  own  hardness  and  self- 
ishness she  called  to  her. 

"  Oh,  Maud,  forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  she  cried. 


THE   CLIMBER  467 

* '  If  you  only  knew !  You  are  not  wicked,  you  have  not 
been  found  out,  and  it  is  all  that  intolerable  shame  that 
makes  me  like  this.  I  want  to  be  sorry  for  all  the 
wrong  I  have  done ;  I  do  want  that.  And  Charlie  will 
come  back  to  you.  I  know  it.  And,  and  I  hope  you  will 
be  happy  again.  You  will  have  your  husband  and  your 
child.  You  love  them  both." 

Maud  smiled  at  her,  with  hands  held  out. 

"  You  mustn't  separate  yourself  then,  Lucia,  from, 
me,"  she  said.  "  You  must  bear  with  my  wanting  to 
be  friends  still.  I  don't  think  I  can  help  that.  And, 
dear  Lucia,  you  have  told  me  the  fault  was  yours  and 
not  his.  You  must  love  somebody  to  be  able  to  tell  me 
that.  And  don't  despair.  Don't  think  of  the  long 
blank  years  in  front  of  you,  or  look  back  on  what  you 
have  lost.  Try — not  now,  but  when  you  are  able  to, 
to  make  something  of  what  is  left.  Will  you  kiss  me?  ' 

For  a  long  while  they  clung  to  each  other  in  silence. 

"  I  will  always  come  to  you  if  you  want  me,"  said 
Maud.  "  And  some  time  you  will  let  me  know  what 
you  are  going  to  do.  But  send  for  me  always.  There 
is  one  thing  more.  Aunt  Cathie  wants  to  know  where 
you  are.  She  wants  to  see  you,  too,  when  you  can  bear 
it.  And  she  gave  me  this  letter  to  give  to  you." 

After  Maud  had  gone  Lucia  read  Aunt  Cathie's 
letter. 

'  *  MY  DEAJREST  LUCIA  : 

"  I  have  heard  all  that  has  happened,  and  I  write 
to  say  that  your  room  is  ready  for  you  whenever  you 
choose  to  come.  I  see  very  few  people  now,  and  per- 
haps you  might  like  to  be  somewhere  where  you  will 
not  be  alone,  but  where  you  can,  if  you  wish,  see  nobody 


468  THE   CLIMBER 

else  but  me.  There  will  be  a  room  for  Maud,  too,  when- 
ever she  likes.  Thank  God,  dear  Lucia,  you  have  such 
a  friend.  It  is  very  wonderful  to  have  anyone  to  love 
you  like  that.  Come  soon,  dear  Lucia,  or  rather,  I 
hope,  you  will  wish  to  come  soon. 

4 '  Your  loving  Aunt, 

"  CATHIE." 


CHAPTER  XX 

T  UCIA  came  out  into  the  sunbaked  garden,  and  even 
•*-^  as  she  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  little  veranda 
a  train  shrieked  by  over  the  embankment  at  the  end  of 
it.  For  six  months  now  the  garden,  the  varying  condi- 
tions of  its  flower-beds,  the  degrees  of  chilliness,  of 
moisture,  or  of  sultry  heat  had  been  familiar  to  her; 
familiar  too  was  the  sight  and  sound  of  the  rushing 
train  that  took  the  happier  folk  from  one  place  to  an- 
other, where  joy  or  pain,  or  something  anyhow,  awaited 
them.  She  had  planted  bulbs  last  November  in  the 
flower-beds,  and  in  April  had  seen  them  flame  into 
trumpets  of  daffodils,  or  a  little  later  into  the  pure 
chalices  of  tulips.  But  now  in  June  there  was  no  sign 
left  of  these  fiery  presences  in  the  beds,  nor  in  her 
heart  was  any  comfort  from  the  sight  of  the  spring 
garden.  She  had  planted  roses  also,  which  were  in  bud 
to-day ;  she  had  planted  clematis  that  was  beginning  to 
put  forth  its  purple  stars  in  a  night  of  green  leaves; 
she  had  planted  pyramids  of  sweet-peas  which  were 
twining  juicy  stalks  about  the  brushwood  that  sup- 
ported them.  All  this  she  had  done  in  hope,  but  the 
hope  that  she  had  dug  into  the  soil  was  now  known  by 
her  to  be  barren.  It  would  never  spring  up;  it  was 
dead ;  there  was  no  hope  any  more. 

She  had  scarcely  set  foot  during  all  these  six  months 
outside  the  house  and  the  garden.  Once  or  twice  she 
had  gone  into  Brixham,  but  on  each  of  these  occasions 
someone,  whose  face  she  just  remembered  but  no  more, 

469 


470  THE   CLIMBER 

had  crossed  the  road  when  she  came  near,  or  had  gone 
by  her  with  quick  step,  and  a  set  wooden  smile,  and 
eyes  that  did  not  see  her.  A  very  little  of  that  was 
enough  for  Lucia,  and  she  had  her  remedy  easy  to  take ; 
there  was  no  need  that  she  should  go  out  into  the  town 
at  all.  Miss  Lucia  Grimson  was  her  name;  she  looked 
after  Aunt  Cathie.  Once  a  young  woman  with  a  child 
toddling  beside  her  came  out  of  the  shop  which  she  was 
passing.  Lucia  could  not  remember  her  name,  nor  had 
she  heard  that  she  was  married.  But  without  doubt  she 
was  the  girl  who  had  given  her  the  orange-coloured  sal- 
via  that  still  flourished  in  the  garden  and  had  planted  it 
with  her,  while  Aunt  Cathie  watered  freely.  But  to- 
day this  young  mother,  on  seeing  Lucia,  had  turned 
quickly  to  her  child. 

"  Oh,  take  care,  my  darling,"  she  had  said,  "  there 
is  a  step." 

But  there  was  no  step,  and  Lucia  quite  understood. 
And  when  she  got  home  that  day  she  plucked  up  every 
one  of  the  orange  salvias. 

She  had  not  written  to  Maud ;  she  had  not  written  to 
anybody.  All  that  could  be  offered  to  her,  she  felt,  must 
be  offered  out  of  pity,  and  the  gift,  made  in  pity,  was 
impossible  to  accept.  But  through  all  these  six  months 
she  had  kept  alive  a  little  flame  of  hope,  though  all  the 
time  she  believed  that  she  cherished  and  blew  on  a 
wick  that  had  long  ago  been  quenched.  Charlie,  as  had 
been  arranged,  was  to  go  away  for  six  months,  and 
communicate  neither  with  her  nor  with  Maud;  and 
during  those  six  months  Lucia  had  deliberately  cut  her- 
self off  from  Maud  also.  Maud  could  do  nothing  for 
her;  it  was  not  Maud  she  wanted.  By  the  arrange- 
ment that  had  been  made,  Charlie  would  choose  between 


THE   CLIMBER  471 

them — that  was  what  it  amounted  to.  It  was,  there- 
fore, little  wonder  that  in  the  interval  Lucia  found  it 
impossible  to  be  in  correspondence  with  her  friend. 
Nor  could  she  see  her ;  the  room  that  was  always  ready 
for  Maud  was  always  empty. 

This  afternoon,  when  she  came  into  the  hot,  familiar 
restrictedness  of  the  garden,  she  knew  her  fate.  She 
had  seen  in  the  Morning  Post,  which  Aunt  Cathie  still 
took  in  for  the  sake  of  its  small  paragraphs,  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Charles  Lindsay  had  arrived  in  town  for  the 
remainder  of  the  season.  That  was  quite  enough; 
Maud's  letter  which  arrived  by  the  second  post  could 
tell  her  no  more  than  that.  So  that  was  settled ;  it  was 
all  over,  and  for  her  there  would  never  be  anything 
more  than  she  had  now. 

And  then  she  knew  how  she  had  built  upon  the  hope, 
even  though  she  had  told  Maud  she  knew  to  which  of 
them  Charlie  would  go ;  she  knew  that  in  her  heart  she 
had  never  accepted  that  which  now  she  was  bound  to 
accept.  And  therefore  hitherto  she  had  looked  on  this 
dreadful  nightmare  of  a  garden  as  a  hotel  garden, 
from  which  she  would  move  to  go  elsewhere.  But  now 
it  was  no  hotel  garden;  such  as  it  was,  it  was  the 
garden  of  her  home.  There  was  at  least  no  other 
home. 

No ;  that  which  had  been  familiar  but  temporary  had 
to  take  another  aspect.  It  was  permanent.  Had  it 
proved  that  Charlie  would  join  her,  she  would  have 
gone  away,  lived  the  pleasant  Bohemian  life  which  was 
possible  to  people  in  their  position,  with  the  gaiety 
that  she  had  taken  the  trouble  to  keep  alive  in  her 
nature.  London,  even  London,  was  not  impossible. 
She  felt  sure  that  she  could  have  managed  to  collect 


472  THE   CLIMBER 

round  her  a  set  who  would  have  been  as  infected  with 
her  supreme  vitality  and  with  her  happiness  as  were 
the  people  she  had  moved  among  before.  Many  of 
these,  too,  would  have  come  quietly.  She  could  have 
made  without  effort  an  amusing  home,  for  her  spring, 
her  enjoyment  of  things,  was  not  impaired.  She  could 
have  climbed  to  another  tree,  and  been  at  the  top  of 
that.  Of  course,  it  would  have  been  annoying  to  know 
that  she  could  not  go  to  many  houses  where  her  pres- 
ence before  had  been  so  much  desired — the  making  of 
the  evening.  But  plenty  of  those  people — such  was  the 
innate  hypocrisy  of  the  English — would  have  come 
quietly  to  her  house.  She  would  have  gone  quietl7  to 
theirs. 

But  now  all  that  was  over;  she  was  left  lonely  and 
bitter.  She  had  read  Maud's  letter,  and  though  it  was 
Maud  all  through,  she  had  no  use  for  it.  It  was  just 
such  a  letter  as  Maud  would  have  written  if  Charlie 
had  decided  otherwise.  But  he  had  not  decided  other- 
wise. Therefore  a  heel  and  a  garden  bed  were  suffi- 
cient for  it. 

So  all  this  feverish  employment,  to  pass  away  the 
weeks  till  Charlie  decided,  was  over.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done,  except  to  use  up  the  time  of  the  years. 
There  were  many  of  them.  There  was  much  time  in 
each,  and  she  was  young  and  strong  and  healthy. 
Years  ago  she  had  grudged  other  people  the  time  that 
they  did  not  coin  into  enjoyment.  Now  she  was  on  the 
other  side.  She,  too,  had  time  for  which  she  had  no  u»e, 
and  she  would  have  sold  it  very  cheap. 

It  was  impossible  to  go  into  the  garden,  so  fiercely 
did  the  heat  reverberate  from  the  baking  walls.  Aunt 


THE   CLIMBER  473 

Cathie,  as  usual,  had  gone  upstairs  to  rest  after  lunch ; 
she  would  not  appear  till  four.  Then  they  would  walk 
down  to  the  kitchen-garden  and  see  how  the  artichokes 
were  doing.  They  might  even  find  enough  strawberries 
to  make  their  dessert  in  the  evening,  but  Aunt  Cathie 
always  said  she  would  rather  have  none  at  all  than  not 
have  a  "  dish  "  of  them.  Raspberries  promised  well 
also,  for  Lucia  had  sewed  up  the  holes  in  the  nets  that 
defended  them  from  the  birds. 

She  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  sat  there  a 
little.  It  was  not  worth  while  reading,  it  was  not  worth 
while  playing  the  piano,  it  was  decidedly  not  worth 
while  doing  nothing.  But  there  was  a  cupboard  under- 
neath the  front  stairs,  which  Aunt  Cathie  had  said 
"  wanted  "  cleaning  out.  Lucia  had  deliberately 
hoarded  up  that  piece  of  employment,  but  she  thought 
alie  might  as  well  use  it  now. 

The  cupboard  certainly  did  "  want  "  to  be  cleaned 
out.  A  net  of  spider's  web  had  been  spun  over  the 
door,  and  from  inside  came  a  damp,  mildewy  odour. 
On  the  top  of  a  miscellaneous  heap  of  papers  and  debris 
was  a  cardboard  box,  oblong;  and,  opening  it,  Lucia 
found  it  to  contain  a  dozen  lawn-tennis  balls.  Moths 
had  eaten  into  their  covers,  but  beyond  doubt  it  was 
the  box  of  balls  that  Aunt  Cathie  had  once  bought  for 
her  birthday  present. 

Lucia  remembered  it  all — remembered,  too,  the 
games  of  lawn  tennis,  how  Aunt  Cathie  used  to  throw 
up  ball  after  ball,  and  fail  to  hit  them  altogether. 
These  were  they;  moth-eaten  now,  mouldy. 


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